


Epoch

by mifan, ramenree



Category: NINE PERCENT (Band), 乐华七子NEXT | NEX7, 偶像练习生 | Idol Producer (TV)
Genre: (a lot sad), (maybe it gets a little sad), Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Historical, Ancient China, Angst, Character Death, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Gen, Historical Inaccuracy, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Martial Arts, One-Sided Attraction, Politics, Slow Burn, Swords, a shit-ton of side characters and cameos, and ancient chinese fluff, and we mean a lot of inaccuracy, as in the government sucks, it's always raining because it's sad, you get a prize if you spot them all
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-04
Updated: 2020-12-19
Packaged: 2021-03-06 16:01:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 17
Words: 47,771
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26281600
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mifan/pseuds/mifan, https://archiveofourown.org/users/ramenree/pseuds/ramenree
Summary: "When you live as I do, there is no such thing as blasphemy. No piety. Jianghu is godless, Zhu tangzhu."Cai Xukun never wanted anything to do with the rise and fall of sects, the petty conflicts of other swordsmen, nor the machinations of mercenaries and government officials alike. Even less so with the dawn and dusk of eras.By then, however, there is very little room left for choice.
Relationships: Cai Xukun/Zhu Zhengting | Jung Jung, Ding Zeren/Zhou Yanchen, Dong Youlin | Jeffrey/Wang Ziyi, Fan Chengcheng/Huang Minghao | Justin, Lin Yanjun/You Zhangjing, Wang Linkai | Xiao Gui/Zhu Xingjie
Comments: 36
Kudos: 101





	1. 零

**Author's Note:**

> hello! it's (ramen)ree and mi(fan), your least favourite duo <3 
> 
> we're here to offer you our firstborn son! 
> 
> after crying for months we're finally ready (?) to show him to the world. 
> 
> ahem. in all seriousness, we wrote a historical au that took a lot of late-nights spent planning, crying, screaming, and doing all of the above at the same time. not much else to say except that we hope the five (5) of you in the fandom enjoy reading it as much as we did giving birth to it <3 
> 
> then we won't waste anymore time! we'll try to deliver what you came for!
> 
> thank you to ree's cishet guy friends who didn't know what they were reading was fanfic for being our beta readers. thank you to zhou yanchen for being the sole reason this exists.

The ashes on the ground rose from their grey piles to dance around his feet as he passed. The swordsman brushed off the flecks that landed on his robes and, once again impeccable, entered the remains of the sect audience chamber. 

At the far end of the charred husk of a room, on a bloodied dais, a polished wooden chair had miraculously survived the flames. The swordsman’s eyes fell upon it immediately, and his lips almost curved upwards in a smile. Almost. This was not a joyous occasion. It was a victory, but not one to be celebrated.

He swept past the pair of bodies that flanked the entrance and headed towards the seat. At the base of a dais, a fallen swordsman turned on his side with a wet groan, adding another smear of red onto what seemed to be the beginnings of a painting on the floor. 

“You are… you are supposed to be dead,” he said to the newcomer. More so the newcomer’s crest. He was an old enemy with the red circle that adorned those robes. “Years ago.” 

“Funny you should say that.” He kicked aside the blade the fallen man had been attempting to reach. “Between the two of us, who is the dying man?” 

The swordsman unsheathed his own blade, a flash of bright steel against the dark backdrop of ash. He gently pressed the edge under the other man’s chin, forcing it upwards. 

“Tell the ghosts of my brothers that I am finishing what we began,” he told the dying man softly. “If you see them, that is. Quite unlikely, if you ask me, because I am about to send you to the lowest of hells.”

His sword bit into the other man’s throat. Without so much as a second glance at the dead man’s face, he wiped the blood off his blade on the corpse’s robes and closed the last of the distance between himself and the seat on the dais. 

“Is anything amiss?” A voice came from behind him. He did not need to glance back to know who it was. “I thought I heard something.”

“You worry too much, Ruibin. I was only admiring this fine chair.” 

He turned and sat down, ash-grey robes billowing around him. Zheng Ruibin ventured a few steps into the hall from his position in the entrance, eyeing said _fine chair_ with no shortage of scrutiny. It was really not much more than that. The craftsmanship was skillful, certainly, but for a sect leader, procuring such a chair would hardly have been taxing. 

No; more so, it was the man who sat atop it that made it look like a throne. 

“Shall I send for men to take it with us?” Zheng Ruibin asked. 

“That won’t be necessary. Some peasant will come in a day or two and take it to sell for a handful of silvers. No need to take that pleasure away from him.” 

“As you say.”

“Yes, it is as I say.” He stood from the chair and looked down the length of the audience chamber. Early morning sunlight had found its way into the room, the first golden rays gilding even the ashes. The man allowed himself a small smile. “And I say this is the dawn of a new epoch.” 


	2. 壹

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _In which Huang Minghao makes a more dangerous bet than he knows._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there are some chinese terms that we were unable to translate and thus left in italics throughout the story! for your convenience a glossary can be found at the end of each chapter where new terms appear :)

Red and white flags snapped in the wind. His heart beat to the rhythm of the drums, a rising staccato of anticipation. Huang Minghao tightened his grip on the hilt of his sword, his thumb running over the hilt of the carved guard over and over again. 

The _wulin_ festival was underway, and his excitement boiled, barely contained by adherence to basic courtesy.

"There's no need to be so worked up." Ding Zeren clapped a hand on his shoulder. "The first day is all exhibition, anyway."

Huang Minghao ignored him and continued letting his anticipation run wild. This was his first festival, despite knowing for years that he was ready to compete. He told Zhu Zhengting as much, too, but their leader was keen on observing age restrictions.

A few other acolytes, dressed in the garb of another sect, ran past them, talking loudly. He heard one ask the other, "Do you think Han Geng will remain the _mengzhu_ this year?" 

The _mengzhu_ was the winner of the determining competition on the seventh and final day of the festival, and they would preside over the rules of _wulin_ for the next two years. Two years ago, Han Geng, a senior member of their sect, Yuehua, was the winner, but it was of Minghao's very unbiased personal opinion that the position will now pass to Zhu Zhengting, and he said as much. 

From the head of their party, Zhengting cast a backwards glance in warning. Despite having known Zhengting for years, now, Minghao still found him imposing. "Careful what you say," he said, raising his eyebrows "It makes you as bad as those in the rings." 

By rings, Zhu Zhengting meant the betting rings. The _wulin_ festival was a positive breeding ground for betters, but Minghao couldn’t blame them, not really; there was good money to be made in guessing at who would win each of the events. Last time, when he was fourteen, he’d almost managed to sneak into one, before being caught by Zhengting’s watchful eye. 

The crowd parted for them as they made their way to their pavilion, the members of the smaller sects quickly scurrying aside. Huang Minghao straightened, acutely aware of all the eyes on him. He enjoyed the attention, even if it was more focused on the Yuehua emblem on his robes. 

Zhu Zhengting pushed aside the flaps to the pavilion and Minghao followed him inside. He blinked in the sudden dimness as the fabric tent blocked out the bright sunlight. As his eyes adjusted, he surveyed their surroundings.

Yuehua had by far the largest pavilion of all the sects attending the festival, and judging by what he saw now, they also had the most lavish furnishing. On the far side of the pavilion, the current _wulin mengzhu_ Han Geng reclined on an elegantly carved bench, polishing his sword meticulously. 

Zhengting walked up to Han Geng and dipped his head quickly in the bow of a younger to an elder. Within the sect, they were equals, though theoretically Han Geng outranked Zhengting to the rest of _wulin_ thanks to his status as _mengzhu._

Minghao and the other disciples with them—Ding Zeren, Li Quanzhe, Huang Xinchun, Bi Wenjun, and Fan Chengcheng—followed closely and lowered one knee to the ground, as was their customary greeting. Something about it never really sat right with Minghao, but it was more because of Han Geng than the formality itself. 

Han Geng waved them back to their feet casually. “They are all well prepared?” he asked Zhengting. He didn’t look up from his sword. 

“Yes,” Zhengting said. “Zeren will represent us in the exhibitions today.”

Han Geng hummed in approval. “Excellent. I trust that we will not disappoint this year.” 

“No.” Minghao couldn’t see, but by his tone he thought Zhengting might’ve been smiling. “Have we ever?” 

“No,” Han Geng echoed. “You have some credit to claim.” 

Zhengting shook his head. “I wouldn’t dare to. I’m just doing what is expected of me as a member of the sect.” 

Huang Minghao wanted to scoff at the exchange. Was it really so hard to take some credit? Or, rather, this whole exchange felt as if it should never have happened in the first place. It was stiff and stilted, and absolutely saturated in the arbitrary conventions of _wulin_. 

“The rest of you can go,” Zhengting told them, looking back. “Get ready for the exhibitions. I'll join you shortly.” 

Minghao didn’t go far, opting to take a seat on the mats at the other end of the pavilion. Removing Xiangyang from his belt, he set the unsheathed sword on his lap and set about cleaning it, as Han Geng had been doing. He was joined by Ding Zeren and Fan Chengcheng, while the rest of their party chose to head straight for the arena. 

“Why are you two here?” Ding Zeren asked, running over his own blade with an oilcloth until Zidian glowed. It was an impressive sword, Minghao thought; Yuehua never let its acolytes go poorly equipped. “I'm the only one who will be competing today.” 

“ _I’m_ just polishing Xiangyang,” Minghao quipped, “but I don’t have an inkling why Fan Chengcheng would be here.” 

The boy in question scowled. “And I’m not allowed to do the same?”

“Oh, you’re allowed,” Minghao said scathingly. “I just don’t see the point.” 

“That’s enough.” Zhu Zhengting strode over to them. “How many times do I need to tell you not to bicker amongst yourself? If you’re a part of the same sect, look the part.”

Minghao shot Chengcheng a look, hoping to convey with his eyes _it isn’t over_ . Maybe it _was_ wrong of him to pick on Fan Chengcheng like that, given they were supposed to be comrades, brothers-in-arms, or whatever else Yuehua liked to use to describe its fellows, but it was hard to stop when the guy could hardly swing a sword the right way. How he made it into Yuehua, supposedly the most exclusive sect in _wulin_ , was beyond him. 

He tossed the oilcloth aside and stood. “Let’s go. If I’m not wrong, the exhibition matches start in half a bell.” 

* * *

The arena was packed full. Spectators from all across the land populated the stands, while each major sect had a slice of the rings of seats closest to the sands. Minghao glanced at the rosters again. Ding Zeren’s match against Mairui’s Yu Mingjun would be the final one of the day. 

“They save the most anticipated match for the end of the day,” Huang Xinchun explained, though it was nothing Minghao hadn’t inferred already. “But don’t worry. The opening matches won’t be dull.” 

The first showdown of the day was to take place between Zuo Ye of the Juexing Dongfang sect and Ling Chao of Kunyin. “Both rookies,” Ding Zeren informed them. “Bets are on Kunyin, though. People have been saying Juexing’s new crop this year are too green.” 

“I thought there was no winning or losing with exhibition matches,” Minghao said. 

“Not officially. But everyone can tell who the better swordsman is.” 

Minghao turned his attention back to the sands. Two drummers were taking their places on opposing ends of the arena. The match was about to begin. 

Zuo Ye and Ling Chao were both young by _wulin_ standards, at only a year older than Minghao himself. Zuo Ye was a well-built, tanned youth with unruly hair, despite the obvious efforts to keep it tidy. Ling Chao was a slender wisp in the sunlight, a pale, graceful thing. _This is going to be interesting._

It was not. Well, not as interesting as Huang Minghao had anticipated, anyway. Neither of the two combatants were _truly_ fighting, he thought, and if this was exhibitions, he would much rather be off sparring somewhere on his own. 

Until something, or some _one_ , rather, caught his attention.

“ _Shixiong_ ,” he nudged Xinchun with an elbow, “is that him?” 

He pointed across the arena. In the stands, a young man sat with a sword across his knees. He was dressed inconspicuously, in dark, faintly embroidered robes, and bearing no visible sect symbols. There was another young man to his right—a boy, really—leaning in with an inaudible remark. 

“If by ‘him’ you mean _jianghu_ ’s first sword, then yes, that’s him, Cai Xukun.” It was Zhengting who answered, as he slapped Minghao’s outstretched arm. “Don’t point. It’s unbecoming.” 

Minghao retracted his hand guiltily. “You know him, Zhengting-ge?” 

“Personally? No. I haven’t had the pleasure,” Zhengting answered. “But to _know_ _of_ him, well, I’m one of many.” 

There was no shortage of tales about _jianghu’s_ first sword, who was supposedly the greatest swordsman in _wulin_. For the past two years, that title had been held by Cai Xukun, a lone wolf unaffiliated with any sect. It left room for one to wonder where and how he’d learned his skills. He was only seventeen when he took the title, after all, not quite old enough to have joined a sect and then departed. 

“Tell me about him, ge,” Minghao implored. “And who’s the guy talking to him?” 

“A travelling companion, most like,” said Zhengting. “I saw him with Cai Xukun last time, too, but he didn’t compete.” 

Minghao looked back at the two men. Yin and yang, they were almost like—Cai Xukun in his dark garb and his companion in a light grey. 

“As for Cai Xukun himself, there isn’t much I know about him,” Zhengting was saying, “since our paths never truly crossed. He’s renowned for speed and efficiency, however, if I’m not mistaken.” 

“Do you think you can defeat him?” Minghao asked. 

Zhengting made a _tch_ sound that meant a reprimand might be on its way. “That’s pointless conjecture.” 

Encouraged by the lack of rebuke, Minghao decided to add, “Pointless? You’ll be fighting him in a few days, ge.”

“And the result of that match will give you your answer,” Zhengting said firmly, sweeping his dark hair over one shoulder. “You’re here to learn something, Huang Minghao; keep your eyes on the match.” 

Somewhat unwillingly, he turned his attention back to the happenings on the sand. Zuo Ye and Ling Chao had finished, and judging by the talk around them Ling Chao was the audience favourite for victor. The few who bet against him were quite vocal with their disappointment. Privately, Minghao thought they were all fools; neither of the two combatants were particularly outstanding. In fact, he was confident he could take them on, rookies as they were. 

The other matches flew by quickly as he occupied himself with identifying more formidable-looking individuals from the crowd. Aside from the Yuehua population in the arena, he spotted quite a few figures he thought he recognized—there were Han Mubo and Qin Fen from Juexing Dongfang, the sect leaders who had once paid them a visit, and he also spotted none other than Wang Ziyi, the governor’s son, among the crowd. A few others stood out, including a fellow with flowers in his hair who watched the matches intently with a ghostly pale young man at his side. Minghao wondered if he would see any of them fight. 

“And the final match of the day’s exhibitions is between Yuehua’s Ding Zeren and Mairui’s Yu Mingjun!” the announcer called. His voice carried over the din of the crowd, which immediately fell into a lull, a low hum of barely concealed excitement. Yuehua was the day’s most anticipated match, after all. 

Minghao put a hand on Zeren’s shoulder as the latter headed out. “Good luck,” he called after him. 

“Luck is for those who don’t have the skill,” Zeren responded, coolly, but added a quick “thank you,” anyway. 

“Some people have both,” Huang Xinchun commented, and as Huang Minghao watched Ding Zeren’s figure recede, he could think of someone with neither. 

* * *

**GLOSSARY**

_Wulin_ \- the Chinese martial arts world

 _Mengzhu_ \- the martial artist who presides over the rules and conventions of _wulin_

Xiangyang (向阳) - Justin’s sword; the meaning of its name is “facing the sun”

Zidian (紫电) - Zeren’s sword; the meaning of its name is “purple lightning”

Juexing Dongfang - “the awakening East;” the Chinese name of OACA

Kunyin - the Chinese name for Qin’s Entertainment

 _Shixiong_ \- a polite term for an older male disciple of the same sect 

_Jianghu_ \- a precise translation for _jianghu_ is impossible; it refers to the “common world,” that is, excluding the political system

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there we have it! the very first chapter + prologue! we hope you enjoyed and would like to thank you for making it this far <3
> 
> our socials if you want to chat!  
>  **ree:** [twt](https://twitter.com/ramenreee) | [cc](https://curiouscat.me/ramenree)  
>  **mi:** [twt](https://twitter.com/maangoism) | [cc](https://curiouscat.me/aiwenism)


	3. 贰

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _In which Chen Linong visits the night market and is paid a visit in return._

Chen Linong never took to large crowds, but he made an exception for the _wulin_ festival. It wasn’t that he was a particularly avid spectator, no, nor did he have any interest in competing—he was here for the market. 

The night markets that followed the biannual festival were the liveliest in the land, and he would be lying if he said that they didn’t remind him of a life he’d lost.

As evening fell, they made their way from the _wulin_ arena into the city, where the streets were choked full of hawkers and the scent of grilled meat wafted through the air. People made way for them, because with Linong was none other than _jianghu_ ’s First Sword, Cai Xukun. 

At first glance, Xukun did not _look_ like the First Sword—if Linong had never seen him kill he might’ve thought the same. With large, dark eyes, full lips, and a slight build, he seemed out of place among the hardened fighters of _wulin_. Now that he had earned the reverence, however, the same features had people bending double. 

They stopped at a roadside stall and Linong purchased two still-steaming _baozi_ for the both of them, wrapped in twists of paper. He took a bite and jiggled the piece, too hot to swallow, on his tongue for a moment. 

“What did you think of today?” Xukun asked him, holding his own steamed bun and waiting for it to cool—a more prudent choice, perhaps. “Maybe reconsider participating?” 

Linong finally swallowed, savoring the taste. “No, probably not. I really don’t see the appeal in competitions.”

“You could win some handsome prizes.” 

Linong snorted. “What you win will be plenty enough for the both of us.” 

They both chuckled. 

The city came alive with nightfall, paper lanterns igniting and inns flinging their doors open for the flood of travellers that accompanied the _wulin_ festival. Music floated through the twilit air, drums and flutes and carrying voices. Linong and Xukun wandered the streets until the stars came out, taking tastes of sweet _tang hulu_ and savory fried sesame balls. Eventually, they settled down in a quieter tavern to bowls of noodles and tea eggs. 

Linong could still remember vividly the first time he’d sat down to eat with Xukun in an establishment like this one; he’d been thirteen, scrawny, and probably a bit dirty too, and might’ve been thrown out if not for Xukun’s unyielding attitude and, to a greater extent, coin. The memory reminded him of just how much he owed to the young man sitting across from him and peeling a finely marbled tea egg meticulously. _Too much_.

“Do you think Han Geng will remain _mengzhu_?” Linong asked, to make conversation. 

Xukun shrugged. “Maybe. If it isn’t him, it’ll be Zhu Zhengting. But it’s all the same to us which Yuehua swordsman sits that throne.”

“I heard people saying Han Geng was past his prime,” Linong commented. “I was just curious what you thought.” 

“They aren’t wrong,” Xukun replied. “This will probably be Han Geng’s last tenure, if he wins.” 

Linong could tell that, like many of those in the rings, Xukun wasn’t quite so convinced that Han Geng would retain his position as _mengzhu_ , not when Zhu Zhengting had been proving himself, for the past two years, to be extremely competent and not to mention _younger_ . He was already a _tangzhu_ —house leader—at Yuehua; word was that it was only a matter of time before he assumed more influential positions. 

“Zhu Zhengting is a very skilled fighter,” Linong said. “You’ll likely cross paths with him, won’t you?” 

“If he’s entering individuals.” Xukun set his chopsticks down. “He might not if _mengzhu_ is his goal.” 

“Talk on the streets says he’ll be in both,” Linong responded. A smirk tugged at his lips. “I heard a couple of maids just now—how exciting it would be to have such a young, pretty _mengzhu_. If gazes could kill.” 

“Han Geng isn’t exactly old.” 

_But Han Geng doesn’t look like he walked out of a watersilk canvas,_ Linong thought, but did not vocalize. He steered the conversation back to the individual tournament: “Remember the fellow we saw today? Ding Zeren? He was pretty good. Do you think he’ll be entering individuals as well?” 

“I wouldn’t see why not,” said Xukun. “It’s said that Yuehua’s crop this year is exceptional.” He paused and regarded Linong inquisitively. “You’re certain you don’t want to test your skills against those in _wulin_?” 

“I’m not interested, Kun-ge,” he said, with a soft laugh. “You know, exhibitional combat wasn’t why I took up the sword.” 

Xukun hummed in understanding. “That’s the last time I’ll ask, then.” 

They finished up at the tavern and headed back to their lodgings, a modest inn on the outskirts of the capital. It was quieter there than the more acclaimed accommodations, and arguably a bit shabbier, too, but there were fewer patrons and, as such, fewer eyes to recognize them. 

Passing through the first floor’s tavern, they climbed rickety stairs up to their quarters; Linong sensed, for some reason, that something was amiss. He reached out and touched Xukun’s elbow, earning himself a look. 

“What’s wrong?” 

Linong hesitated. He couldn’t place it, so what was he to tell Xukun? 

“I don’t know, “ he admitted, meeting Xukun’s eyes. _Tread carefully_ , he tried to convey. 

Xukun’s expression was unreadable, and Linong could only look on with mounting anticipation as he pushed aside the sliding panel doors to their room. 

“Who are you?” Xukun asked levelly. Linong, coming up from behind him, saw over his shoulder four men dressed in black from head to toe, save a few red accents on their clothing here and there. They were all armed with swords, Linong noted, and judging by the bulge in their sleeves they had knives on them as well. “What business do you have in our lodging?” 

“Cai Xukun, _jianghu_ ’s First Sword.” One of the men stepped forward. Half his face was covered with black cloth, but he removed the face covering to reveal a stubbled jaw and crooked teeth. “Respectfully, we are here to talk business.” 

“I have no business with anyone,” Xukun responded slowly. Linong could see the hard line of his shoulders beneath his robes, the tension apparent. “And if you please, identify yourselves.” 

The men looked at each other, and the first one spoke again: “We can only speak to you alone.” 

“That won’t do,” Linong said immediately, moving closer to Xukun, his hand instinctively drifting towards Xinghong at his hip. He could see the other party do the same, on reflex. 

“Whatever you want with me, I’m sure my companion can also hear it.” Xukun’s voice was becoming colder by the second. “Otherwise, you can leave.” 

“Trust me, you will want to hear this,” the stranger tried again, “and your man needn’t go far. Just wait outside the room with one of ours.” 

“Don’t do this,” Linong muttered, close to Xukun’s ear. “They can’t mean well.” 

Xukun angled his head towards Linong slightly, never taking his eyes off the other men. “They don’t intend to leave without me hearing them out first.” 

“But-” 

Before he could finish, Xukun said, “Fine. Linong, you wait here. I’ll listen to what you have to say.” 

“A good choice,” the lead man said. One of the group peeled away from the others to stand by Linong just outside the doorway, and the last glimpse he got of Xukun was his back as he sat down at the tea table, the other three men around him. 

The screen door shut.

He was now standing outside their quarters with one of the men, a short, stocky fellow with a similarly stunted blade in his hand. His face was also half-covered in black. Linong did not let his fingers stray far from Xinghong, braced for sudden movement, but none came. From inside the room, he could vaguely make out a few words here and there— _join_ , was one of them, and _power_ was another. Did they want Xukun to enlist in some kind of organization? 

He turned to the man who, for some reason, felt like his guard. “Where do you come from?” he ventured politely; there had to be something he could discover about their visitors.

The man ignored him, so Linong tried again: “Are you a part of a sect?” 

He gestured to the little wooden tablet tucked into his sash—a _lingpai_ , or clearance pass. The words or design carved into its surface was mostly hidden by fabric, but he could make out some red curves in the dim candlelight. 

“This is none of your concern,” said the stranger. “Our business is with the First Sword.” 

Linong gritted his teeth, but he knew it was pointless to press further. Instead, he discreetly inched closer to the screen door, straining to hear the conversation inside.

“ _Please consider…_ ” said an unfamiliar voice—most likely one of the men who hadn’t spoken earlier. “ _We… the same things… more freedom. Power._ ” 

“You’re wrong,” Xukun’s voice said authoritatively. The force behind it carried it to Linong’s ears more clearly than the words that came before. “I’m not interested in _wulin_ politics, much less dominating them.” 

Linong looked back at the guard with him, and at the _lingpai_ in his sash, and came to a conclusion—they were from a sect, rivalling Yuehua, perhaps, and they sought to recruit Xukun so that they might wrest control of _wulin_ using his power. _It all makes sense_.

“Then what is it you want?” one of the strangers asked. “Our master can give it to you, whatever that may be. Silver. Freedom. Anything.” 

“Enough,” came Xukun’s voice, followed by the scrape of wood against wood—a chair being pushed back. “We’re done here.” 

Linong reached for the screen door when he caught a glimpse of steel out of the corner of his eye. Retracting his hand and darting back into the corridor quickly, he saw the guard brandishing his short, ugly blade, and the tolls of steel against steel rang out from inside the chamber. 

_Shit, Xukun’s outnumbered_ , he had time to think, before his assailant swung at him. The wall was to Linong’s back, and the space was too narrow to duck to the sides without being cut, so he dropped to a crouch and unsheathed Xinghong in one fluid motion. In the flickering light of the lanterns, his sword glowed red. 

The man pulled his sword back from its wide arc and swept downwards instead, Linong rushing up to meet his blade with his sword and scabbard. He locked his attacker’s weapon between the two and sent a well-placed kick into his abdomen. The man grunted and fell back. 

Linong pounced on him, slicing at his sword arm and feeling Xinghong dig into flesh. With a gasp, the man released his sword and Linong planted one foot on his arm and another on his chest as he thudded to the floor. 

His sword out of reach and unable to draw from his forearm sheaths, the man lay back and looked up at Linong with bloodshot eyes. “Just kill me,” he said. 

Linong obliged him and ran back into the room. 

* * *

**GLOSSARY**

_Baozi_ \- steamed buns with filling, typically prepared in a bamboo steamer

 _Tang hulu_ \- a popular Chinese street food comprising candied haws skewered on a stick

 _Tangzhu_ \- the leader of a house, or _tang_ , within a sect

Xinghong (腥红) - Linong’s sword; the meaning of its name is “blood-red” 

_Lingpai_ \- a clearance pass granting individuals access to affiliated locations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> our socials if you want to chat!  
>  **ree:** [twt](https://twitter.com/ramenreee) | [cc](https://curiouscat.me/ramenree)  
>  **mi:** [twt](https://twitter.com/maangoism) | [cc](https://curiouscat.me/aiwenism)


	4. 叁

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _In which Zhu Zhengting's fight starts a little early._

For several years, Yuehua _tangzhu_ Zhu Zhengting had lived under the same roof as the other swordsmen of his house. One would think, then, that he would have grown accustomed to the incessant bickering and unholy volume that was all six of them in the same room.

That was not the case. He still felt the headache settling in, almost like an old friend, as he stepped into the wing of the inn they occupied and came face-to-face with undiluted chaos. A shrieking Li Quanzhe was being pressed against the wall by an irate Huang Xinchun while an annoyed Ding Zeren growled at the both of them to be quiet. In a corner of their own, a sullen Fan Chengcheng glowered at a smug Huang Minghao. 

Zhengting turned to Bi Wenjun as he slid the door shut behind him, closing his eyes. “What did I do in my past life to be put in charge of these fools? Do they _hear_ themselves?”

Bi Wenjun smiled at him serenely. “To compare us to the other houses… spare yourself the disappointment, Zhengting.” 

Wenjun’s voice was full of mirth, as if he knew that despite what he said, Zhengting would not change anything for the world. 

Huang Xinchun had temporarily let Li Quanzhe go, the noise in the common room subsiding some. What remained came from where Fan Chengcheng sat leaning against the wall, expression growing darker as Huang Minghao continued to taunt him. Neither noticed as Zhengting approached them from behind, intending to put a stop to their bickering. 

“...just admit it, Fan Chengcheng.” Minghao’s tone was merciless. “You were jealous of Yu Mingjun, weren’t you? Even though he was the one getting his ass handed to him by Zeren, you were jealous, because if you could even have _half_ his skill you’d be miles ahead of where you are now. You know, give it some thought—a third rate sect like Mairui might be a better place for someone like-” 

Zhengting hit on the back of his head with an open palm, interrupting him and saving Chengcheng from exploding like his bright red face suggested he would.

“Language, Huang Minghao,” he said, austerely. “What did I say about such uncouth language, and at _wulin_ , no less? And would you please stop abusing Chengcheng? He’s part of Yuehua, too, and part of _our_ house, no less—”

Minghao scoffed, turning on his stool to sulk at Zhengting. “He’s my roommate, too. You forgot that. And perhaps you also forgot that you made me his training partner, too? I’m with him every moment of the goddamn day.”

Chengcheng glowered, though he didn’t move. “You think I’m glad about that? No one wants to put up with an arrogant, bigoted—”

“ _Language_ ,” Zhengting snapped. “That applies to you as well, Fan Chengcheng.” 

He slumped. Even though Zhengting was still looking at Chengcheng, he knew that Minghao must have been making a face, and Zeren’s voice sounding behind him confirmed that. 

“Minghao, if you hold that look any longer, it’s going to stay on your face permanently.” 

Zhengting turned back. Zeren was standing there, arms crossed over his chest, one hand thumbing the sheath of the sword he held in the crook of his elbow. His expression was teetering between deeply annoyed and deeply amused, though by the spark in his eyes, Zhengting guessed that he was leaning more towards the latter. 

“Better I have this expression than have none at all.” Minghao’s retort was weaker than his normal repertoire; Zhengting suspected that even he had nothing to say about how well Zeren performed today. “You didn’t show any today when you were fighting that Mairui boy. Who holds their sword to someone’s throat and looks like a piece of rock?”

Zeren was smiling now. “I’ll admit, it was a little quicker than I’d expected.”

“Of course it was,” Xinchun called from the opposite end of the room. At some point in time he had gone from attempting to murder Quanzhe to giving him a massage—all still within typical behaviour, Zhengting knew. “You are forgetting how much you worked for this.” 

“I agree,” Minghao mused, with a mocking air. “All that practicing deep into the night must have stunted your growth.”

As the smile slipped off Zeren’s face, Zhengting quickly sprang back into their conversation. “Don’t mind Minghao.” he said earnestly, “he’s just sulky he didn’t get to compete today.” He turned to Chengcheng, “And don’t worry. You’ll be up there in the next _wulin_ , I’m sure of it. Just a couple more months of training and you’ll be better than half the people in the individuals.”

Minghao scoffed quietly, while Chengcheng’s face remained as sullen and impassive as always.

“Zhengting, are you competing tomorrow?” Wenjun asked calmly, as if he didn’t just witness Minghao and Chengcheng’s poisonous exchange. “There seemed to be much talk today about you and Cai Xukun.”

“Of course there is,” Zeren said impatiently. “Word is that Cai Xukun refused to compete for the _mengzhu_ title again, and that our Zhengting is going to be the next one.” He smiled at Zhengting, eyes twinkling. “Though that doesn’t mean that you won’t win against him in individuals, too.”

“Zeren,” he began admonishingly, when Minghao cut him off.

“Zhengting-ge will win for sure,” he said, the certainty in his voice simultaneously flattering and lacking in the respect Zhengting had tried and failed for the past few years to drill into him. “You missed him two years ago, but now is your chance.” 

Zhengting ignored both of them, sitting down beside Wenjun and addressing him instead: “Yes, I believe I fight against one of the Kunyin people for the _mengzhu_ competition tomorrow, and… someone unaffiliated with a sect for individuals. Lin Yankai, or something?”

Wenjun’s laugh was a soft exhale. “As someone who may well be the next _mengzhu_ , it would be good if you remembered your opponents names, wouldn’t it?” 

“Bi Wenjun,” Zhengting whined. It was a tone he only used with him. “Even if Cai Xukun is not competing for the title, there’s still Han _mengzhu_.” 

Wenjun just laughed again, reaching out and putting a gentle hand on his forearm. “Let me put some ointment on your muscles for tomorrow. It should relax you.”

Zhengting sighed and conceded, pushing his dressing robes off his shoulders. No one in the room bat an eye, and Wenjun least of all as he traced the sharp relief of his muscles with practiced fingers. Zhengting closed his eyes and leaned back. 

Ever since they were young, Wenjun had always been interested in medicine; while he was as good with a sword as any other, Zhengting recalled that he seemed more keen on going into the forests around their sect to look for medicinal herbs than training with the group. After a long day, he would grind up the herbs he found and test them out on Zhengting’s sore muscles. More often than not, the remedies would be useless, but somewhere along the line he figured out a consistent recipe. 

Wenjun’s hand grazed the scar under Zhengting’s collarbone. His eyes opened, and Wenjun’s fingers seemed to flutter on his skin as if in apology. Zhengting shook his head almost imperceptibly. 

Because being with Bi Wenjun was safe. It had always been that way. Not to mention, he was surrounded by the rest of his house. Even if they did make too much noise and bickered like there was no tomorrow, Zhengting held an immense affection for each of them.

Wenjun was the closest to him in age and the first person he befriended in the sect, and Minghao joined not too long after. Then came Zeren, Xinchun, Quanzhe, and finally Chengcheng. They were a mismatched bunch, as Song Zhaoyi always told him, but however mismatched, they were still family. 

He thought that maybe he could be the father, disciplined and uncompromising and their protection against the dangers of _jianghu_ until they were ready. He certainly felt the part, what with the pride that swelled in his chest when Ding Zeren defeated Yu Mingjun in the exhibition matches of the morning. He had only allowed himself a small, careful smile then, but he showered Zeren with praise afterwards. 

Zhengting relaxed his shoulders as Wenjun began to massage them, kneading the sharp-smelling ointment into his skin. He’d been subject to it enough times to know that the smell would stay with him until morning, but he supposed he had no business being concerned for that. There would be no diplomatic meetings for him tomorrow; only the clashing of swords. 

In a few days time, he could be on the metaphorical throne of _wulin mengzhu,_ and the diplomacy could wait until then. 

Han Geng was still a formidable fighter, but Zhengting was twelve years his junior. That, combined with the fact that First Sword Cai Xukun had abstained from competing for the title made the possibility higher still. 

By all accounts, Cai Xukun was a… peculiar man. Since he won the individual event at the _wulin_ festival two years ago at merely seventeen years old, the First Sword’s name had become an oft repeated one. And although Zhengting had expected that he would decline to compete for _mengzhu_ —nineteen was a precariously young age to rule _jianghu_ , in his opinion—he was surprised when he’d heard that the man had yet to even join a sect. The First Sword usually remained in the capital at the very least, though that too seemed not to be the case for Cai Xukun. He’d disappeared from the city immediately after the last _wulin_ festival with his companion, a tall boy with drooping eyes. The people said that they were brothers, though Zhengting disagreed for how dissimilar they appeared.

He hissed out of gritted teeth. A sharp pain had interrupted his contemplation, and the cause was Wenjun’s fingers digging into a knot in his back. Wenjun leaned over his shoulder and smiled apologetically.

“I’m sorry,” he said, though his tone didn’t sound apologetic at all. “It’s stiff here.”

Zhengting grunted, half-disbelieving. “It won’t be a hindrance.” 

“Maybe our confidence in you was misplaced,” Xinchun said suddenly, approaching them with a playful smile. Zhengting could almost sense what was coming. “Stiff the night before the competition?”

Following quickly, Minghao added, “You’re wrong, _shixiong_. Zhengting- _ge_ is still going to win. His opponent will fall from one look at him.” 

Zhengting could feel a swell of emotion rise up inside him, half of it irritation and the other half a grudging affection. “Is that the best you can do?” 

“He isn’t wrong.” Even Zeren had decided to join in, it appeared. “Zhu Zhengting’s face has been known to kill instantly.” 

Minghao mimed disgust. Chengcheng looked at him out of the corners of his eyes, unimpressed, and Wenjun laughed softly in Zhengting’s ear. 

“That’s enough.” Zhengting stood abruptly, yanking his robes back over his shoulders. “I loathe each and every one of you.” 

“Not me, I hope,” Wenjun said, amused, wiping his hands on a cloth. Zhengting cast him a glance, and he returned it with one of understanding. Of course Wenjun understood. “Go sleep, Zhengting. You’ll need the rest.” 

“Don’t disrespect me again,” he told the rest of them, before leaving the room. The others just laughed as he went, and he had to force himself not to look back, or they would see his smothered smile. 

Zhengting’s room was at the end of the hall, and it overlooked the inn’s central garden. It was lit by a lantern that cast a dim, reddish glow over his bed. After sliding the door shut behind him and closing all the shutters, he began to disrobe, changing into softer sleeping garments and letting his hair down. 

He could already feel the effects of Wenjun’s work. He blew out the lantern and lay down, feeling the tension drain out of his body. 

The night was cool and clear, the moon hanging bright in the starless night sky. He could hear the bustle of his house from a couple rooms down; Minghao seemed to be arguing with Chengcheng again. It was fading away though, Wenjun shuffling them to go to bed. Some things never changed. He shut his eyes.

Zhengting knew that there were perks with being one of the best fighters in all of _jianghu_. He was respected, feared, and had a clear idea of what he ought to do from day to day. But if there was one thing he appreciated the most, it was his skill and ability to protect himself and the people he cared about.

He sensed it even before he opened his eyes. His hand darted out, grabbing Liming with one hand and flinging aside his covers as whatever it was came sweeping down upon him, meeting his sheathed blade. He never slept without his two swords right beside him, precisely for this reason.

The man swiped at him again, but he expected it and tumbled to the side. He swung his own sword down, though the assassin rolled out the way and it knocked the lantern down instead. The man darted back, and he just had enough time to grab Huanghun and hold it up to his face to defend himself. Another clang, the impact sending vibrations along his hand and arm, and Zhengting pushed back, swiping Liming to send the assassin’s weapon to the ground and holding the sword to his throat before he could escape.

Lights, just bright enough that Zhengting could get a glimpse of his assailant, appeared in the halls outside, followed by shouting. Zhengting didn’t dare look away, all his attention focused on the man before him. He was shorter, a dark cloth covering all but his eyes, looking just as tense as he felt.

Wenjun and Minghao crashed into the room, flooding it with torchlight, weapons at the ready.

Zhengting let out a long breath, his heart still drumming against his ribs.

* * *

**GLOSSARY**

Liming (黎明) - Zhengting’s sword; its name means ”dawn” 

Huanghun (黄昏) - Zhengting’s other sword; its name means “dusk” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> week 2/？- we're on schedule! let's just hope we can keep this up <3 
> 
> our socials if you want to chat!  
>  **ree:** [twt](https://twitter.com/ramenreee) | [cc](https://curiouscat.me/ramenree)  
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	5. 肆

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _In which Wang Ziyi has an eventful morning._

The morning air was cool and humid, and clusters of heavy clouds hung in the sky as light gathered at the horizon. Wang Ziyi breathed in deeply, smelled dampness and dust and the smoke of the city, and felt the uneven ground rise and dip underneath him as his horse trotted through the streets. There was the odd vendor here and there, bustling about in small shopfronts, arms covered in flour or stained with frying oil, their gruff voices calling out to one another for certain ingredients or to work faster. They looked up as he passed them, immediately pausing in their tasks and bowing at the waist, as was customary for officials of Ziyi’s rank. As the governor's son, none of this would be new to him, if not for the early morning murders he would need to get used to.

The captain of his household guard, Dong Youlin, pulled ahead of him and turned to face him, smiling slightly. “Are you hungry, Wang _gongzi_?” 

Ziyi chuckled lightly. “Not particularly. I’d say the investigation takes precedence over breakfast.”

Youlin raised his eyebrows before his face settled into grim humour. “Well, it’s now or never. I doubt we’ll be able to stomach food after investigating.”

Ziyi straightened, taking notice of the cluster of guards ahead of them. They lined the street, their dark faces and long swords making what was normally a bustling street at this time in the morning tense and nervous. The vendors, typically hawking by now, were all quiet, casting worried glances at one another. Ziyi sighed.

“It’s the third murder this month,” he said. “I thought that maybe you’d be used to the bodies by now.” The soldiers standing guard by the narrow alleyway bowed to them as they passed, sheathed swords held upright in their clasped hands.

“We’ll find out soon,” Youlin said ominously. He climbed off his horse, one hand on his sword.

Ziyi followed suit, nodding at the murmuring soldiers around him. He shifted his robes so that his family’s _lingpai_ was on full display, then stepped over to where Youlin was looking down, posture stiff, at a form on the ground. 

He felt the same tenseness in his muscles as he took a closer look. The victim this time was a man dressed in dark blue robes stained deep plum where the blood had soaked through his clothing. Most noticeably, there was a large, dark stain at the front of his robes, where his heart would have been. Mouth twisted and half open, he stared up at the pale, cloudy sky.

An old man stood before the corpse, shaking slightly. “I found him just before dawn, facedown, when I was coming down this alley to get some water. I thought he was drunk at first, but when I called to him, he didn’t respond. Then, when I turned him over, I knew he was dead.”

Youlin sucked in a breath before turning quickly to Ziyi again. “His forehead, Ziyi. It’s that symbol again.”

Ziyi leaned in closer. Just as Youlin said, there was a red circle stamped on his forehead with a strange, cross-like symbol in the center. The ink had smeared, presumably when the man had fallen, painting the left of his face a blotchy red. Even so, it was undeniably the same symbol that had appeared on two other bodies this past month, all in different towns in the area. This latest one was only an hour’s ride from the capital city.

Youlin glanced at him darkly, tilting his head towards the soldiers around them “We should head back and have an autopsy done”

Ziyi nodded, then turned towards a pair of soldiers standing against the wall. “Clean him up and bring him back to the Wang Manor,” he commanded. An afterthought prompted him to add, “Sketch some pictures of his body untouched first. I want records for the symbols on him and the locations of his wounds.”

They nodded, then one left to presumably retrieve more soldiers for the task. 

“Keep this quiet,” Youlin told the guard who remained behind. He also glanced sternly at the old man who had discovered the body in the first place, seemingly appeased when he nodded meekly. He looked back to Ziyi. “Let’s head back.There’s nothing else we can do until they do more of a search on the body.”

He reached forward and patted Ziyi on the arm, earning some surprised looks from the guards and the old man—after all, captain of the guard or not, he’d just touched the governor’s son. Ziyi smiled gently at the onlookers before following Youlin back to their horses. 

* * *

Back home, Ziyi informed his attendants that he was going to bathe, and when they exited the room, he disrobed and stepped into the bathing chambers. 

The air was thick with steam from the hot water the maids had brought up for him, and he couldn’t help but sigh in pleasure as he sunk into the water. His entire body ached, more from the tension brought on by the murders than from being on his feet all day at the _wulin_ festival to keep order. The presence of swordsmen like Zhu Zhengting and Han Geng would quell most of the fights anyway. 

Ziyi’s real problem was the bodies. The last one had been barely a week ago, before the _wulin_ festival began, and the first just another week before then. Now this third one had turned up, alarmingly close to the capital city. All three were discovered early in the morning, their bodies dumped in dark alleyways or in dry canals. All were branded with the same strange, red symbol. And all were esteemed swordsmen in their own right.

A rustling sound roused him from his heat-induced stupor. Ziyi sat up slowly in the water, but stayed quiet otherwise. There was only one person who could enter his private chambers without asking his permission, anyhow.

Dong Youlin still had his sword close by his hand when he sunk under the water across from him. Ziyi smiled.

“You could not leave your sword with the rest of your clothes outside?”

“And leave us both vulnerable to an attack?” He grunted, closing his eyes in pleasure. “I think not.”

He was completely comfortable with the man in the water alongside him. Having grown up together, sharing the same bath was no rarity. The Dong family had, for decades, served as the Wang family’s guard, sending their first-born as soon as they could walk to train in swordsmanship at the Wang household. Youlin had taken an oath to protect Ziyi with his last breath, although Ziyi hoped to any god that would listen that it would not come to that. Youlin served him well and, more importantly, Youlin was his friend. 

The various scars that adorned his body stood testament to that. Ziyi raked his eyes over the white marks standing out on Youlin’s tan skin; once, it seemed like every few weeks Youlin would have to add another scar to his collection, only reminding Ziyi of his own rashness However, with time, people had less and less reason to attack him out of the blue once word got around of Youlin’s skill.

"What are you looking at so intently, Wang _gongzi_? Surely it isn't me," Youlin drawled, with his eyes still closed. "Hm?"

Ziyi chuckled. “It isn’t everyday that a man as handsome as you bathes with someone as modest as I am.”

“Don’t try to make it seem like you weren’t just looking at my scars,” Youlin snipped, “This happens every time we bathe.”

Not wanting him to go onto a speech about service and duty, Ziyi changed the subject. “Youlin, must I remind you that no matter how close you keep your sword, closing your eyes and relaxing to the point of slumber makes protecting us pointless?”

“Please, _gongzi._ No one would dare attack if they saw me with you. Besides,” he groggily opened his eyes and gestured to his own arm, “you are perfectly capable of defending yourself. The only reason I’m even here is because of my family.”

Ziyi chuckled again. Youlin had insisted that for years now, a joke that, to others, would seem sacrilegious without knowing the sort of camaraderie they had with each other.

“Shouldn’t we discuss what happened today?” Youlin said suddenly, sitting up straighter. Ziyi noticed that Youlin, ever diligent, immediately shifted towards the sword resting beside him, as if he was anticipating an attack. Despite his consistently cheerful attitude, he was on edge, too. 

“I would love to, if we had more things to go off of other than the same symbol.”

“We know that all three were respected swordsmen as well,” Youlin offered. “All were infamous mercenaries or one of the best of their sects.”

“Which, unfortunately, doesn’t narrow down the victim pool very much.”

“It does, however. There are many more common people than respected swordsmen.”

“Well, luckily we seem to have a lot of those at hand.” Ziyi gestured at Youlin’s sword. “With _wulin_ and everything.”

Youlin frowned. “Are you suggesting that the next murder could be during the _wulin_ festival, Ziyi?”

“It could.” Most of _jianghu_ ’s best are congregated here in the capital for the festival. If he was the man behind these murders, the man who left that red brand, he would choose this time to both seek out new targets as well as strike again.

“Wouldn’t it be suicide, though, to try to attack the people competing?”

Ziyi tilted his head. “Like who?”

Youlin scoffed incredulously. “Cai Xukun, for instance? The First Sword?”

“Any man can be taken down with enough opponents,” Ziyi reminded him. “Even the First Sword.”

Youlin looked at him in shock again. “I forget that you have never seen the man duel. If you saw him in the arena, I believe you would think quite differently.” He shifted. “He won his title at seventeen, Ziyi, younger than anyone before.”

“Cai Xukun is human like the rest of us,” he said dismissively. “I worry for him as much as I do the other swordsman participating this year. Yuehua’s batch, for instance, are all exemplary. Any one of them could be targeted as well.”

Youlin laughed. “They would be fools to wage a war against Yuehua. You take out one and the entire sect would come after you.”

“Oh?” Ziyi raised his eyebrows. “Sect devotion, is it?”

“Oh?” Youlin imitated him, somewhat mockingly. “Within a house, at least.” He laughed shortly. “Not that they need it. Take Zhu Zhengting’s house, for instance. Every member of his house seems to be completely capable of defending themselves in an attack. Zhengting himself is even skilled enough to clinch the _mengzhu_ title this year, the betters say.”

“And do you agree with them?”

“Yes. The one who competed yesterday—Ding Zeren—was formidable, wasn’t he? It just shows how skilled Zhu Zhengting must be now if one of his disciples is at that level.”

Ziyi nodded. The boy who had competed yesterday demonstrated not only strength but remarkable speed and technique as well, easily triumphing over the boy from the Mairui sect. It had caused a buzz in the grounds: if Ding Zeren, one of Zhu Zhengting’s house, was this powerful, how powerful must Zhu Zhengting himself be by now?

Youlin cut into his thoughts again. “So attacking any member of a Yuehua house wouldn’t go pleasantly. Even if the rest of the sect didn’t immediately go after them, they would have a hard time killing them in the first place.”

“But we don’t know if they’re doing it to simply kill them.” Ziyi reasoned, “They could be kidnapping them instead. It would explain the number of disappearances in _jianghu_ as well as these latest murders.”

Youlin sighed. “I still doubt they would target a member of Yuehua. However, if you think we should investigate during the festival, I’ll accompany you.”

“You wanted to watch the second day of the tournament anyway,” Ziyi replied. “We might as well kill two birds with one stone and do some poking around.”

“Yes, yes. I want to watch Zhu Zhengting fight.” Youlin raised one eyebrow, now smirking slightly. “And I want to see him compete against Cai Xukun. Both of them are in the individual tournament this year, though Cai _daxia_ has declined again the chance at competing for the _mengzhu_ title.”

“I’d like to meet him someday,” Ziyi mused. “I wonder why he would refuse a title like that, being as skilled as they say he is.”

“You’ll maybe get the opportunity today. He is competing, to my knowledge.” Youlin smiled again, though a little stiffly, “You would also get to see why the young men and women whisper of him like they do.”

“Which is?”

“Handsome face, beautiful swordsmanship. The women of the city cannot wait for his duel against Zhu Zhengting, _jianghu_ ’s most beautiful face.”

“I think I would be more interested in his skill,” Ziyi responded, watching as Youlin seemed to relax his shoulders at this latest confession.

“I would sure hope so. Maybe we can hire him to be a guard here.”

“Unless you can prove that you’re more skilled than him with the sword, he would replace you,” he teased. Youlin laughed at that.

“I wouldn’t need to. If the rumours are true, Cai Xukun wouldn’t settle for being a simple guard. They say he spends his days travelling jianghu from town to town, never lingering in one location for too long. The only person that he allows to accompany him is that boy he’s always with.

Ziyi frowned. “Boy?”

“They say that he’s Cai Xukun’s disciple or distantly related family. It doesn’t matter; he doesn’t know how to wield a sword anyways.” He grinned suddenly, “I’ve seen him once, when he was watching Cai Xukun’s final match two years ago. He has a smile like the sun.”

“Then maybe we should hire him instead, hearing that you enjoy how he looks.”

Youlin laughed. “He would never leave Cai _daxia_. It’s probably safer to be the First Sword's companion than a guard here, anyway.” 

He stood, water dripping off his body, running in rivulets down his muscled form, “I should go prepare for today’s travel to the _wulin_.” He shot a fond look at him as he climbed out. “You should get ready as well, if your plan is to search for clues of these murders today.”

Ziyi nodded, leaning back and closing his eyes slightly, drowsily watching as Youlin slid open the door, still wet, and slipped out back into the hall.

* * *

**GLOSSARY**

_Gongzi_ \- a respectful term for a young man of noble birth, similar to the archaic English term “childe”

  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for all the support and lovely comments so far! dong youlin is jeffrey by the way... just in case some of you guys didn't know that haha. hot buff guys stick together :3
> 
> our socials if you want to chat!  
>  **ree:** [twt](https://twitter.com/ramenreee) | [cc](https://curiouscat.me/ramenree)  
>  **mi:** [twt](https://twitter.com/maangoism) | [cc](https://curiouscat.me/aiwenism)


	6. 伍

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _In which Cai Xukun is forced to socialize._

Cai Xukun wiped the blood from his sword on the dark clothing of the dead men before slipping Xiao Hongchen back into its scabbard. 

“Xukun,” he heard Chen Linong call his name, “you’re hurt.” 

“And you’re stating the obvious.” He peeled his free hand away from his abdomen and found his palm sticky with blood. “Bring the man outside in here. And go downstairs to tell the innkeeper not to worry. Pay him if you need to; just tell him not to come upstairs.”

Linong quickly wiped his hands of the red. “I’ll go get you a doctor, too.” 

Xukun glared at him. “That won’t be necessary.” 

Linong pursed his lips but left to do as he was told. 

Xukun bent down next to one of the fallen men, with some difficulty, and extracted the _lingpai_ folded away under his sash. It was hard wood, carved with a red circle dissected with something reminiscent of a cross. Xukun straightened and stumbled over to the tea table, sitting down heavily with the _lingpai_ tight in his grip. 

_Take over_ wulin _, huh_. 

Once upon a time, maybe the offer would have enticed him. 

He grimaced. Despite what he’d told Linong, the wound _was_ bothering him some. He undid his sash with fumbling fingers and lifted away the drenched fabric to find a bloody gash running the horizontal length of his lowest rib. He prodded it. The cut wasn’t deep, but was losing blood steadily. 

Linong returned. His mouth was set in a disapproving line, so Xukun knew what was coming. 

“We’re going to find you a doctor,” Linong said, and his tone left no room for protest. 

“And bring them in to see this massacre?” Xukun asked, nudging the nearest body with the tip of his shoe. “That seems awfully impolite.” 

Linong looked at him, uncharacteristically authoritative. “Then we’ll go to them,” he said. “The Xi’erdun Inn is close by. We can go there.” 

“Xi’erdun Inn?” It took a moment for Xukun to realize what that entailed. “Yuehua is staying there, if word on the street is to believed.” 

“Exactly.” Linong walked over and pulled him to his feet. “We’re going to see Bi Wenjun.”

* * *

Somehow, they made it to Xi’erdun Inn without attracting any spectators—no small feat when _jianghu_ ’s First Sword was trying to keep his blood inside his body. They did so thanks to the number of alleyways the capital sported, and for once Cai Xukun was thankful for dank, dark places rather than disdainful of them.

Just outside the inn, Linong put his grey travelling cloak around Xukun’s shoulders and fastened it tightly to hide the blood. Xukun straightened and followed Linong into the inn, where they walked straight up to the desk. 

“We’re here to see Bi Wenjun of Yuehua, could you tell us where he’s staying?” Linong asked for the both of them. The innkeeper scrutinized them before his gaze locked on Xukun and his eyes widened in recognition. 

“ _Daxia_ ,” he exclaimed, “of course! Their lodgings are this way, come with me.” 

The man scurried out from behind the desk and led them up to the second floor. The Xi’erdun Inn was much more lavish than where he and Linong were staying, but Xukun had little energy left to enjoy it. The innkeep showed them the way to an elaborately carved panel door and returned downstairs at one gesture from Linong. 

There were sounds coming from inside the room, low, frantic mutters and what sounded like rapid pacing. Linong and Xukun shared a look before the former reached out and rapped on the screen door lightly. 

“Didn’t we tell them we were not to be disturbed?” a voice snapped from inside. Xukun guessed that it might be Zhu Zhengting; only a _tangzhu_ or higher rank would likely talk in such a manner. 

“There’s two people outside,” said someone else. “I don’t think it’s the innkeep.” 

Xukun heard footsteps approach them softly and after a moment, the screen door slid open a crack. A pair of narrow eyes regarded him curiously through the crevice, squinting then widening all in the span of an instant. 

“Cai Xukun? _Jianghu_ ’s First Sword?” The door opened wider, revealing the tall, fair-skinned boy behind the words. “What-” 

“The First Sword?” a new voice asked. “Chengcheng, let him in.” 

The boy backed away obediently, jaw still slack. Xukun stepped over the threshold with Linong close behind him and a steady hand on the small of his back. He would never admit it, but the extra stability helped. 

“Sorry for arriving unannounced,” Xukun said quietly. There were five pairs of eyes on him; the boy who opened the door, _tangzhu_ Zhu Zhengting, the famed doctor Bi Wenjun, and two others Xukun did not recognize. “But if it isn’t too much to ask, I’d like to see your doctor.” 

There was a moment of stunned silence, before Zhu Zhengting said, tightly, “Of course. Wenjun, could you attend to our guest?” 

The tallest man in the room, dressed in white and blue robes, stepped forward. “Certainly,” he said. “Please, _daxia,_ take a seat.” 

He beckoned to a wooden chair by the window, one of a pair with a small table between them. Xukun strode over to it as stably as he could and sat, Linong close behind him. 

Bi Wenjun followed with a rattling satchel, which he set on the table. “What can I do for you?” 

Reluctantly, and with a slightly resentful glance at Linong, Xukun undid the clasp on Linong’s cloak and let it fall around his shoulders. He heard a surprised gasp from Bi Wenjun as the doctor caught sight of his blood-soaked clothing, the red stark against his white inner tunic. 

“May I?” Wenjun asked tentatively, leaning in towards him. Xukun nodded, and the doctor gently pulled aside the fabric to study the cut that ran along his rib. “How did this happen?” 

“An attack,” Xukun explained shortly. He looked at Linong, to whom he still owed an explanation. Having forced him into the present situation aside, the boy had been blessedly patient with him tonight, and for the past few years, for that matter. But he could tell his patience was wearing thinner the longer Xukun stayed silent. _Soon_ , he hoped to convey with his expression. If Linong understood, he made no indication of it.

“Who could be foolish enough to attack _you_ , _daxia_ ?” the doctor pressed on, now rummaging through his bag for medical supplies. “And during the _wulin_ festival, no less?” 

Xukun thought about it for a moment, before extracting the _lingpai_ from the pleats of his bloody sash and tossing it onto the table with a wooden clatter. “Whoever this belongs to,” he said. “Unfortunately, I wasn’t able to take any of them alive.” 

“ _Them_?” 

“Four.” 

Wenjun looked at him in a mixture of shock and admiration, something he was well used to, at this point. “You took on four swordsmen alone?” 

“Three,” Xukun corrected himself. He tilted his head towards Linong, who hovered over Wenjun’s shoulder with his eyebrows creased in concern. It was a little bit endearing, the worry. “I had help.” 

Wenjun only nodded, before busying himself with tending to his injury. Xukun winced when the doctor took a cleansing cloth to the gash and forced himself to look past Wenjun and across the room to focus on something else. Zhu Zhengting was there, pacing and talking in a hushed voice to the other three Yuehua disciples. 

_“... attack. We need to find… this._ ” Xukun caught bits and pieces of the conversation. “ _... gets back, we’ll… information, I hope._ ” 

_An attack?_ Xukun wondered. Could it have something to do with the same men who approached him tonight? Zhu Zhengting was a very powerful swordsman, too, and no doubt Yuehua was full of potential allies for the same men who had paid him a visit. 

“Zhu _tangzhu_ ,” he called. The man in question turned. The simple action was, somehow, incredibly elegant. 

“What can I do for you, _daxia_?” Zhu Zhengting asked, with strained courtesy. There was thinly veiled displeasure on his face; clearly, Xukun had both eavesdropped and interrupted something important.

He picked up the _lingpai_ he’d shown Wenjun earlier and held it up to the lamplight for Zhengting to see. “This, _tangzhu_ ,” Xukun said levelly. “We were attacked tonight by four men, each carrying this clearance pass. I’m wondering if it has anything to do with what you speak about.” 

Zhengting strode over briskly and took the _lingpai_ from his hand, studying it closely. “No, I’ve never seen this before.” He turned to the other Yuehua disciples. “Xinchun, go downstairs and tell Minghao to bring our assassin.” 

The disciple in question, a thin young man with slanted eyes, nodded and left the room. _Assassin. Not a recruitment, then._ “Might I venture that you suffered an attack here as well?” Xukun asked. 

Zhengting’s mouth twisted. “Yes. If luck is on our side, he might recognize this.” He glanced down at Xukun. “How are your wounds?” 

Bi Wenjun leaned back to allow Zhu Zhengting inspection. “It’ll need sutures,” said the doctor. It seemed as if he were talking to Zhengting rather than Xukun, even though it was Xukun’s injury. 

“If you would, doctor,” Xukun said. “And what can I do for you in return?” 

Wenjun shrugged as he extracted a spool of thread and a needle from his bag. “There’s no need to worry. I’m well provided for.” 

_By Yuehua, of course_ . Xukun let the matter drop, instead looking up to address Zhengting once more, “Thank you for your hospitality, _tangzhu_.”

Zhu Zhengting nodded. “It is our pleasure, _daxia._ I’ll let Wenjun finish with the stitches, then.”

Xukun leaned back in the chair and allowed Bi Wenjun to approach him with a needle. He braced himself as the needle pierced the unmarred skin on either side of his cut, and gripped the armrests of the chair as the process began. Wenjun looked at him sympathetically, as Linong came around to his other side and placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder. 

The pain was sharp but bearable, and the doctor worked very quickly. By the time the disciple Zhu Zhengting had sent away earlier returned with another and a disgruntled young man between them, the sutures were almost completed. 

“Fucking hell, what’s the First Sword doing here?” the second disciple asked with a start. He looked even younger than Linong, Xukun noted; no doubt he was another one of the young prodigies Yuehua was known for, if he was trusted with a prisoner alone. 

“Mind your language, Huang Minghao,” Zhu Zhengting said sternly. He turned to Xukun with the shadow of mirth on his face. “My apologies. This is Minghao’s first festival.” 

“No need to apologize,” Xukun said, although his brief attempt at a smile likely resembled a grimace as Wenjun finished the final stitch. 

“Done,” Wenjun said, leaning back to admire his handiwork. His reputation didn’t lie, Xukun realized as he looked down. “I imagine you’d like to join in Zhengting’s discussion, now.” 

Xukun noticed that Bi Wenjun called Zhu Zhengting by his name rather than title; the dynamic between the Yuehua men present was curious, to say the least. He kept silent on it, however—it was far from his place to question it. 

“Thank you,” he told Wenjun, who was now quickly applying soft bandages over the sutures.

“My pleasure,” replied Wenjun. “Might I be able to get you some fresh clothing?” 

Xukun felt the coldness of the blood-stained fabric on his abdomen and chest. “If it isn’t too much trouble.” 

“Not at all.” 

With that, Wenjun stepped aside and left the room. Linong offered him a hand up and Xukun took it, rising to his feet slowly and walking stiffly over to where Zhengting held the _lingpai_ in front of his assailant’s face. 

“Does this look familiar to you?”

“No,” the young man drawled, jaw set defiantly. He wore his hair much shorter than the average man—the marks of a mercenary. Xukun should know—he was essentially raised by mercenaries. “I told you already. Whoever hired us left us nothing but where to meet.” 

When Zhengting didn’t ask where, Xukun and Linong shared a glance. Clearly, they were behind on information; Yuehua had done some questioning already. 

“Might I ask where?” Xukun decided to request. The captive looked up at him, his expression flickering through annoyance, recognition, and surprise. 

“Not far from here,” said the assassin. “Gangjiao Town.”

Xukun turned to Zhengting. “And this was an attempt on your life, _tangzhu_?” 

Zhengting looked at the assassin disdainfully. “Yes.” He studied Xukun, as if suddenly remembering something. “And the assault upon yours, _daxia_ , were you able to learn anything from that?” 

Xukun felt Linong sharpen to attention further, if that was even possible. This is what he also wanted to know. 

“It would appear their motives are different,” Xukun began. “They approached me initially to, ah, recruit me. To what, they wouldn’t specify in great detail, only that their master was seeking to conquer—or, as they say it, _reform_ —all of _wulin_.” 

Zhu Zhengting sucked in a breath. “And they attacked you when you said you weren’t interested?” 

_“Our master is creating a new order,_ daxia _._ _We want the same things.”_

_“You don’t know the first thing about me.”_

_“Oh, but_ he _does. The world is going to hell,_ daxia _, but he is here to fix it. He will establish a new_ wulin _. And you could be a part of that.”_

“Yes,” said Xukun. “They were quite skilled too; I can only imagine this master of theirs would have more _wulin_ talents behind him.” 

Zhengting was silent. One of the disciples spoke up, the one Zhengting had admonished earlier, Huang Minghao: “ _Daxia_ , would you happen to still be in possession of their bodies?” 

Xukun peered at the boy. “Why, yes.” 

“Would we be able to take a look at them?” 

“Minghao!” Zhengting said. “It is not your place to ask.” 

Xukun shared a glance with Linong. “It’s quite alright, _tangzhu_ ,” said Xukun, after ascertaining that he and Linong agreed. “If you believe it would give you more insight into the situation, then by all means we can give them up to Yuehua.” 

Frankly, neither Xukun nor Linong wanted much to do with _wulin_ politics. If they did, they would have joined a sect, but the constraints and arbitrary order of sect life was not for Xukun. He had posed the possibility to Linong, once, but the boy refused to leave him, so he let the matter rest. In this case, giving the bodies up to Yuehua meant one more thing off their hands, and they could go on their way. 

Zhengting sighed through his nose. “That would be helpful,” he finally said. “Where are they? I will send some men to collect them.” 

“We’re staying at the Wu Family Inn,” said Xukun. “Linong here can accompany your men to collect them if you want to do so now.” 

Linong shot him a sharp look. Xukun inclined his head slightly in inquiry. 

“Can I talk to you?” he whispered, rather aggressively. 

When it was apparent that the Yuehua disciples were occupied with what they knew of the case on their hands, Xukun let Linong pull him aside.

“Why can’t you just tell me what’s going on?” Linong demanded. “Is that too much to ask?” 

“What I said now was exactly what happened,” said Xukun, puzzled. Sure, he’d left a few things out—but they weren’t important things. Only details. 

Linong huffed. “And telling me to go with them? I don’t remember agreeing to that.” 

Xukun laughed softly through his nose. “Then allow me to ask for your consent,” he quipped. “Will you be so kind as to take our friends of Yuehua back to our lodgings?” 

Linong sighed, as if in acquiescence. “Why aren’t you coming with me? I don’t want to leave you here like this. You’re hardly in any condition to defend yourself. What if you’re attacked again?” 

“Please, I’m hardly going to be attacked in the midst of the best swordsmen in the nation.” 

Linong’s jaw was set defiantly. “Zhu _tangzhu_ was.” 

“And it clearly failed,” said Xukun, trying to match his earlier patience. “I’m in good hands, Linong. But it really wouldn’t do if I go out onto the streets dressed in bloody tatters. There will be talk.” 

“When have you ever cared about talk?” 

_He has me there_. “All right. I’ll go with you.” 

“No, that last part was for argument’s sake.” Linong shook his head, sighing through his nose. Xukun felt, inexplicably, a twinge of guilt. “I’ll go. You stay here. I wouldn’t want your wounds to be aggravated.” 

Zhu Zhengting walked over to the two of them. “Is it a convenient time to go now?” 

Linong nodded, giving Xukun one last accusatory look. Zhengting beckoned a couple of disciples over—a round-cheeked boy with a swath of black hair covering one eye, and the young man with an angular face earlier introduced as Huang Xinchun. 

“Li Quanzhe and Huang Xinchun can help you retrieve the bodies,” Zhengting said. “There are also wagons out in the back you can use to avoid taking more than one trip.” Zhengting handed Xinchun a little wooden tablet—his own _lingpai_. “If they ask.” 

With Linong in the lead, they left, just as Bi Wenjun returned with an armful of fabric. “ _Daxia_ , I tried my best to find some that would fit you.” 

Xukun had worn his share of ill-fitting clothing, but he nodded. “My thanks, doctor.” 

He took the clothes, set them down on a nearby chair, and shed his outer robe, leaving him standing in nothing but a blood-stained inner tunic. Zhu Zhengting caught sight of this and stared at him in shock for a moment before rushing up to him. “ _Daxia_ ,” he said sharply, as if scandalized. “You can change in the privacy of another room.” 

Xukun scanned Zhengting up and down. _Bold words for a man wearing nothing but dressing robes._

He must have said it out loud, because a red flush crept up the sides of Zhengting’s neck and the younger disciples let loose a volley of snickers from the other end of the room. Even their prisoner was laughing under his breath. Before Zhengting could respond, though, there was a distinct _zing!_ sound that cut through the air and before Xukun even knew what he was doing, he was tackling Zhengting to the floor. The impact sent a jarring pain through his injury and he felt one of the sutures pop open— _well, this is going to be a pain in the ass._

The arrow tore through the thin wooden panels on the window and thudded into a pillar in the centre of the room, just under the little alcove meant for a lantern. “What the fuck?” he heard one of the disciples swear and another yelp in surprise. Xukun quickly sat back on his heels and Zhengting got to his feet immediately, striding over and pulling the arrow out of the wood. 

He carefully extracted the folded piece of parchment tied to the shaft with a length of twine. Xukun dusted himself off, got up with a wince, and walked over to where Zhengting’s eyes darted back and forth on the page, reading. 

_Meet at the Big Tree,_ the message said, in wild, hasty brushstrokes. _And bring your prisoner._

* * *

**GLOSSARY**

Xiao Hongchen (笑红尘) - Xukun’s sword; the meaning of its name can be loosely translated to “laughing at life”

 _Daxia_ \- a respectful term for a revered martial artist 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter was one of our faves to write and read; we hope u liked it as much as we did! these were the alternative summaries we came up with for this chapter btw:
> 
> in which cai xukun experiences the spectacular sexual tension of meeting zhu zhengting for the first time.  
> in which cai xukun gets wenjun to kiss his boo boo better.  
> in which cai xukun is not really vibing.  
> in which cai xukun is attended to by a hot doctor.  
> in which cai xukun is roped into shit he did not want to be.
> 
> our socials if you want to chat!  
>  **ree:** [twt](https://twitter.com/ramenreee) | [cc](https://curiouscat.me/ramenree)  
>  **mi:** [twt](https://twitter.com/maangoism) | [cc](https://curiouscat.me/aiwenism)


	7. 陆

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _In which Xiao Gui's plans go awry. ___

The boy who currently paced back and forth in front of Xiao Gui didn’t seem to know when to shut up. 

“How much are you getting paid for this?” he ranted, his neck going red. “And who would hire you to kill  _ Zhengting _ ?”

He continued his tirade, waving his sword haphazardly and occasionally glaring at Xiao Gui. In any other situation, Xiao Gui would most likely have escaped by now. The ropes around his wrists were tight, but not so tight that he couldn’t shift his hands back and forth, itching to free them. He could do it, he thought, but it would be stupid. He tried not to do stupid things.

“Hey, are you listening to me?” The boy suddenly took a knee and put his face up close to Xiao Gui’s, fixing him with a hard stare. Xiao Gui didn’t flinch; it wouldn’t do to be intimidated by someone as young as his gaoler.

“How old are you, even?” he drawled, savoring the taunting words on his tongue and how the disdainful look in the boy’s eyes flared into bright anger. “You can’t be more than a child.”

“I’m sixteen!” the boy exclaimed indignantly. He raised his sword in frustration, perhaps aiming to drive it into the stone floor, but he caught himself when he realized the damage it would do to it. “You don’t look too old yourself.”

“I look older than you at least, boy.” Xiao Gui snorted. He only smirked when an unsheathed sword came to rest dangerously on his shoulder. “Don’t try intimidating me. It won’t work.”

This would be the moment he’d try to escape, kicking his captor away and making a run for it. He didn’t, though; he knew much,  _ much _ better than to try to escape under the watch of a Yuehua swordsman in the depths of their base, not while bound and weaponless, and certainly not while his young gaoler had his sword pointed at his throat.

“You’re going to have to tell us everything later eventually,” the boy said. “Mocking my age won’t prevent me from questioning you.”

“Perhaps.” Seeing as the sword wasn’t coming any nearer to his head, he scooted back and leaned his back against the wall. “But I’m tired right now. I’ve had an eventful night.”

The boy grunted in disbelief, a vein pulsing on his temple. This boy had shown up with a sword mere seconds after Zhu Zhengting had disarmed him, looking ready to kill if it came to it. And he had very nearly done so—if not for Zhu Zhengting’s (wiser) judgement to take Xiao Gui captive, he would have been dead by now.

The boy was now muttering a string of curses under his breath. He sounded like Xingjie when they’d missed a target, or when someone didn’t show up to pay them for their services. 

Speaking of Zhu Xingjie.

_ Ah, fuck _ . Xingjie was going to kill him for sure. He and Zhou Yanchen had both emphasized the magnitude of this particular job; he would need to be much more careful than he usually was. And now… 

_ Xingjie is going to kill me, and Yanchen will never let me hear the end of this _ .

He sighed, prompting the boy’s head to snap up expectantly. “Have something to say?”

“No,” he told him. “Stop talking to me. I don’t talk to kids.”

Although he was trying to provoke his jailer more so than to actually quiet him, the boy obliged and took a step away, drawing his sword back. Xiao Gui watched as he raised the corner of his robes and began to polish the blade, the silver metal glinting under the dim light of the basement lanterns. It was an impressive blade, with a shiny wooden handle and gold accents on the design. He read the name engraved on its side:  _ Xiangyang _ .

He snorted. 

_ Facing the sun _ . How predictable that a Yuehua disciple would wield a sword named that. 

Presently, he heard shuffling above him. There seemed to be a new din of voices, though the exact words were too muffled and quiet to distinguish. The boy seemed to hear it as well, as he stopped polishing his sword and tilted his head towards the sound.

A few more minutes of this, with both Xiao Gui and his captor listening rapt to the voices above them. His mind wandered,  _ who the hell would come visit Yuehua this late at night? _

_ You, dumbass,  _ a voice that sounded suspiciously like Zhou Yanchen’s reminded him,  _ you wanted to take the job and here you are _ .

He wondered what they were doing right now, now that Xiao Gui didn’t turn up as they had originally planned. He suspected they had prepared for that possibility though; Xingjie never went into something without two or three backup plans.

Suddenly, the door to the basement flung open, sending a torrent of light into the room. A thin boy with a mop of deep brown hair-- the one who had accompanied his current captor in disposing him in the cellar-- poked his head in. “Minghao, bring our prisoner up. Zhengting-ge said that he wants to speak to him.”

“Can’t Zhengting just come down here?” His captor—Minghao, apparently—said indignantly, though he was already pulling Xiao Gui to his feet. “This guy could escape.”

The other boy rolled his eyes as he made his way down the stairs. “Just bring him up. Stop asking so many questions.”

“I’ll stop asking questions when Zhengting realizes that bringing our captor back up to where he could easily escape is a bad idea.”

Xiao Gui wanted to point out that he would be  _ literally _ stupid to try to escape when he was bound and in the presense of some of the best swordsmen in the land, but held his tongue when he remembered that it was he who had tried to break into Yuehua in the first place. And, as if to voice his thoughts, the boy took his other arm and hauled him steadily up the stairs, saying, “He’s not stupid enough to do that.”

Beside him, he could hear Minghao mutter something under his breath, but as he was dragged up the stairs, he averted his attention to his surroundings. Soon, they were trudging down a narrow hall lit by yellow lanterns, the walls on both sides lined with sliding wooden and paper doors. It reminded him of the various brothels he and Xingjie and Yanchen had passed by to meet clients or receive new work opportunities, though obviously a hundred times cleaner and more elegant.

“I’m not going to run. Stop pulling on me so hard.” He hissed suddenly, stumbling as the other boy yanked on him harder. “You just said it: I won’t be going anywhere.”

“We’re here,” the other boy said as a response, sliding open a panel of doors and revealing a large, brightly-lit room.

There was a moment of silence as they took the scene in. Then,

“Fucking hell, what’s the First Sword doing here?” Minghao blurted out, loud enough to make Xiao Gui’s ears ring. 

Just as he said,  _ Cai Xukun _ was sitting in a chair with his robes slightly undone. A taller man, the one who had rushed alongside Minghao with a lantern earlier—Bi Wenjun, if he remembered from Yanchen pointing him out yesterday—was kneeling beside him, hands working on something near his abdomen.

There was another boy, the one who travelled alongside the first sword, standing behind them and with a hand laid on Cai Xukun’s shoulder. He stared at Xiao Gui as they entered, eyes wide, and if Xiao Gui didn’t know better, he would mistake the distrust reflected in them as innocence.

“Mind your language, Huang Minghao.” Zhu Zhengting’s stern voice came wafting from a side, where he was standing closer to the wall. He frowned at the boy holding his arm before turning to Cai Xukun and adding, “My apologies. This is Minghao’s first festival.”

As Cai Xukun responded with whatever formalities the sect people used these days— _ gods, did they really care about swearing _ —Xiao Gui did a quick survey around the room. To his surprise, Zhu Zhengting’s house seemed to be composed of less people than he had thought. He had expected more, considering how skilled they said Zhu Zhengting was. Instead, there were no more than three other disciples in the room.

Apart from the men currently conversing, there was another boy sitting against the back of the room. Tall and pale, he perched on a wooden stool as he stared at Xiao Gui, a scowl on his face. He had dark brown hair looped loosely in a ponytail tossed over his shoulder, and was dressed in plain black robes. He looked and seemed like a petulant child, he decided.

Standing by Bi Wenjun, peering at whatever he was doing with Cai Xukun’s stomach, was a smaller boy with a swath of black hair covering one of his eyes. He had round cheeks and a small mouth turned up in a grimace, eyes and brows furrowed as he gazed at the scene below him. One of his hands rested on an white sword with an intricately designed sheath. Looking at the childish way he was pouting, Xiao Gui dismissed him as even more of a child than the last one.

But leaning against the wall, arms crossed over his chest, was a boy who did not by any means seem like a child. He was the smallest out of all the men in the room, including Xiao Gui himself, though the impression he gave made him seem much larger. While some of the disciples in the room were scowling at him, this boy was positively glowering. He had straight, glaring eyebrows that, combined with the hard-set line of his wide mouth, only served to make him seem more intimidating. There was something else too; though the other disciples seemed more interested in whatever Xukun and Zhengting were discussing, this particular disciple didn’t take his eyes off Xiao Gui. He continued to glower at him, even when Zhengting suddenly turned to Xiao Gui, a round wooden tablet dangling from his hands. 

“No,” he said tiredly when Zhengting asked if he recognized the symbol, aware that Cai Xukun and his companion were creeping up upon them. “I told you already. Whoever hired us left nothing but where to meet.”

_ Sect people really are uptight. _ Zhu Zhengting continued to ask him questions about the job offer they had taken, despite him having told him before that whoever had left the posting left nothing else apart from the location to where they would go to collect their money. 

Xiao Gui went back to staring at the boy who had  _ still _ not stopped glowering at him. He seemed familiar somehow, though he couldn’t seem to remember from where.

But then, he shifted his robes to reveal his sword, and Xiao Gui, seeing the strange deep purple of his sword handle, suddenly remembered.

_ The boy who duelled against Mairui! _ he remembered,  _ the one who Yanchen wouldn’t shut up about. _ He felt stupid for forgetting what he looked like so quickly; Yanchen was about a word away from waxing poetic about his beauty when they had watched him duel in the exhibtion matches earlier in the day. 

_ Oh, Yanchen _ , he thought, peering closer at the boy,  _ I bet you’re jealous of the close-up I’m getting. _

Then again, he scoffed at himself, Yanchen wasn’t the one at the mercy of not only the Yuehua swordsmen now but also the fucking First Sword and his companion. 

Still, he might as well enjoy the company of the handsome men around him, Xiao Gui decided. Xingjie would call him crude, but he doubted that he too wouldn’t take the chance to admire Zhu Zhengting’s renowned beauty and Cai Xukun’s handsomeness up close. Especially since Cai Xukun was then stripping off his bloodstained robes, revealing lined muscle and a neatly stitched up slit Bi Wenjun must have been working on when he was first brought in. 

“ _ Daxia _ ,” Zhu Zhengting said suddenly, and Xiao Gui noticed the way his ears turned red, “You can change in the privacy of another room.”

_ Enjoy the fucking view, Zhu Zhengting _ , he thought idly, before Xukun commented on the thin dressing robes Zhengting himself was currently clad in. He laughed under his breath, enjoying the deep red flush that crept up Zhengting’s neck and into his cheeks. 

Suddenly, even before Xiao Gui could tell what it was, a sharp  _ zing! _ whipped across the room, where Zhengting was standing just moments before. Xukun dove and pushed Zhengting out of the way of the arrow that streaked from the window to the opposite wall. One of the other disciples across the room—the short one who had stayed quiet throughout the entire ordeal and had glared at Xiao Gui the moment he stepped into the room—yelped in surprise as Minghao swore loudly.

Xiao Gui got a closer look at the arrow just as Xukun pulled himself to his feet again. Long shaft, with thin, brown feathers bound to the end of it. There was a black circle marked near the end, and Xiao Gui groaned. 

_ Fucking hell, Xingjie. Could you have used any flashier way to get their attention? _

As Zhengting and Xukun read the bit of paper rolled around its shaft, Xiao Gui leaned back against the wall and shut his eyes.

_ Zhu Xingjie. Zhou Yanchen. You better not be doing anything stupid. _

* * *

“But how the fuck do all of you know which ‘Big Tree’ they were talking about?” Xiao Gui asked, aware of the desperation that was seeping into his voice. “There are more big fucking trees than there are people around here.”

Fan Chengcheng, the tall, pale boy with a sullen face who was ordered alongside Huang Minghao to escort him as they made their way near the outskirts of town, muttered back just as desperately, “How the hell would I know?”

“How do you  _ not _ know this, Fan Chengcheng,” Minghao parroted from his other side. “You’ve been here for a while now, have you not? Do you not have eyes?”

“There are a lot of trees!” Chengcheng hissed back, red creeping up his neck. Xiao Gui had to agree with his irritation. “You could be helpful and tell me a bit about this specific one!”

“It’s…big,” Minghao whispered mockingly, then cackled loud enough so that Zhengting, who was at the front of their procession, had to turn and glare at them.

“It’s called the Big Tree because that’s quite literally what it is.” Another voice supplied quietly behind them. Xiao Gui glanced back to see the disciple who had glared at him back at the Yuehua lodgings, Ding Zeren. “It’s much taller and wider than all of the other trees around here.”

_ Still doesn’t seem like a very clear distinction,  _ Xiao Gui thought,  _ Xingjie, do you even want me back at this point, sending instructions to Yuehua like ‘Go to the Big Tree’? _

“Thank you, Zeren,” Chengcheng huffed. “You actually gave a clear answer.”

Zeren didn’t acknowledge that he had even spoken. He seemed tense and serious, with one of his hands clasped tightly around his sword handle, staring up ahead with dark eyes. Xiao Gui smiled in spite of the situation; from this angle, he could see why Yanchen wouldn’t shut up earlier in the day about him. He was handsome, in a cute, deadly way. Yanchen had certainly thought so.

“I think I can see someone,” Cai Xukun said quietly from slightly behind Zhengting. “There. Just behind the tree.”

Xiao Gui looked up and realized, with no shortage of exasperation, that 'the Big Tree' was in fact the most apt way it could possibly be described. Despite being in the thickest part of the forest, it easily dwarfed all the growth around it, and its enormous canopy formed a circular clearing around its trunk where no other trees could grow unhindered. It was in this clearing that two men stood, one with an enormous sword and another with the silhouette of petals in his hair. 

He could see Zhu Xingjie’s tense frown as he watched them approach him, the way his mouth ironed out flat and his eyebrows scrunched up. Yanchen was behind him, hand on his sword, looking less serious but more exasperated than Xingjie. He caught Xiao Gui’s eye, grimaced slightly, then allowed his eyes to drift behind him. Xiao Gui saw as his eyes widened, catching sight of just who comprised the small procession of people escorting him, and despite Xiao Gui’s predicament, he had the audacity to smirk a little. 

_ Fuck you and your eye candy,  _ he thought nastily, as they climbed the hill. He tried to glare at Yanchen when they got close enough, but he wasn’t even looking at him too closely anymore.

“Zhu Zhengting,” Xingjie said in a measured, slow voice. “Thank you for coming so promptly.” He didn’t look at Xiao Gui either.

“It was the very least I could do,” Zhengting said drily, “After all, I’d like to know why my life was jeopardized tonight.”

“I keep telling you,” he blurted out, finally earning Xingjie’s disapproving attention, “the people who hired us didn’t tell us anything but--”

“Quiet,” Zhengting said, voice like ice. It was enough to shut just about everyone up.

The only one who didn’t seem fazed at all was Cai Xukun. “I’d also like to know why my life was threatened at the same time as Zhu  _ tangzhu _ .” He peered at Xingjie, who stood unfazed. Yanchen’s eyes widened though.

“We had nothing to do with your attack, First Sword,” Xingjie said back coldly. He nodded to Zhengting. “But we did for you, Zhu  _ tangzhu _ . You have proof for that.” 

He gestured to Xiao Gui. “But I was hoping that we could make a deal to get him back.”

_ Ah, diplomatic as usual.  _

Zhu Zhengting seemed to study him for a moment. “What will you be willing to give me in return? Money? Power? I have no need for either.”

Yanchen laughed sharply, a jarring contrast to the tense atmosphere. “Oh, Zhu Zhengting. We’re an illegal group of mercenaries. How much of either do you think we have? Certainly not as much as you do.”

“We can help you.” Xingjie shot Yanchen a glare. “What Xiao Gui must have told you already is true; we didn’t know who posted the order to have you killed. All we were given was a location to go to to collect our payment afterwards. However, if you are willing to negotiate, we are willing to help you find out who exactly did want you dead.” He turned to Xukun. “We don’t know about the attack on you,  _ da xia _ , but we can do what we can to find out more if Zhu  _ tangzhu  _ wishes.”

To Xiao Gui’s surprise, it was Ding Zeren who cut in first. “Why would we trust you?” he sneered. “A group of  _ mercenaries _ who broke into our lodgings and who won’t even apologize for trying to kill an innocent person.” He crossed his arms over his chest, though Xiao Gui could see that his sword was slid partway out of its scabbard already.

Before Xingjie or Zhengting could respond, Yanchen took a step forward until he was looming over the rest of them. He grinned wryly at Zeren, who was a good amount shorter than him, and this, combined with the disdain in Zeren’s own eyes and the odd white flowers woven in Yanchen’s hair made for quite an interesting picture. “You were the beauty who fought in the exhibitions today, no?”

Xiao Gui closed his eyes for the looming headache. Zeren snapped back, “Do not call me that.”

“Call you what?” Yanchen bit back. Xukun and the other Yuehua members looked intrigued. Xingjie just looked tired.

Zeren didn’t flinch, nor did he remove his hands from where they were crossed over his chest. But a flush of red anger crept up his neck and into his cheeks. “I have no interest in what a mercenary thinks of me.” He snapped, colder and angrier than before.

“Are you sure that’s true? You look quite flustered right now.” Yanchen crowded into Zeren’s space, willfully oblivious of the darkness and disgust that suddenly flitted across the boy’s face. “It’s quite a good look on you, I will say.”

There was something else in Zeren’s demeanor, not only the apprehension people usually had against mercenaries like them. It was like the very idea of Yanchen was foul and evil, something he had to hold himself back to not claw apart. Xiao Gui cleared his throat, aiming to tell Yanchen to back off before he got stabbed; Zeren’s hand was tense around the deep purple handle of his sword.

“Hey, Yanchen. Back off. We’re here for business,” Xingjie warned for him, pulling him back. Yanchen shot a lazy glance behind him, twitched an eyebrow, and, to Xiao Gui’s relief, took a step back. He wasn’t ready to see Yuehua and the First Sword attack his friends. 

“If you are willing to aid us,” Zhu Zhengting cut in firmly, “I would like a full recount of what exactly occured for you to disturb me in my sleep so late at night. Your friend here-” a pointed glance at Xiao Gui, “- didn’t do it justice.”

“My name is Zhu Xingjie, and this here is Zhou Yanchen. The man you’re holding captive is Xiao Gui. We’re part of a group of mercenaries. Illegal, but you knew that. Every once in a while, we visit the Red Fox tavern’s basement, where clients can post jobs for all the city’s mercenaries to accept. They usually go for a good price. This one was no exception. We went to the tavern’s basement about a week ago, before the wulin, and Xiao Gui immediately saw this one stamped in the very centre of the board the jobs are posted on. It had orders to take out Zhu Zhengting of Yuehua, along with a handsome sum underneath and a location to go to once the deed was done. That was it.”

“Where was the location?” Zhengting’s voice was colder still.

“By Gangjiao.”

Zhengting hummed. “And you swear that this is the truth?”

“We have nothing to gain by lying.” 

“Then it’s settled.” Zhengting outstretched a hand. “You will help us investigate the reasons behind this attack and we will return your prisoner.”

“Zhengting!” Zeren snapped in surprise, “You can’t trust these people.”

“And how are you going to make sure that they hold up their end of the deal?” Minghao burst out, his fingers digging into Xiao Gui’s arm. “They could just take him and run!”

Xiao Gui had to agree with him, and by the way Fan Chengcheng tightened his own hand around his other arm, he could tell he did as well.

“No,” Cai Xukun said suddenly. He stared directly at Xingjie and Yanchen when he spoke. “We already know that they’re a part of a mercenary group, the name of the tavern that they take jobs from and their names. Although,” he smiled sheepishly, “no one would question the words of the First Sword and a Yuehua  _ tangzhu _ in the first place.”

“Yes. Zhu Xingjie, was it? If you swear that you will uphold your end of the deal, we’ll give your friend back.” Zhengting smiled wryly, prettily. 

Yanchen looked like he wanted to object, but Xingjie put a hand on his wrist before he could open his mouth and stuck out his other hand for the man to shake. “Deal, Zhu  _ tangzhu _ .”

Zhengting shook it, then when he looked satisfied, turned to Minghao and Chengcheng and nodded.

They immediately released him. Minghao went behind him, and Xiao Gui felt the swish of air as he cut through his bindings with his sword. 

Xiao Gui stepped forward, rubbing his sore and chafed wrists. He stole a last glance at the Yuehua group, saw Minghao and Chengcheng’s dubious faces, Zeren’s dark frown. Only Zhengting and Xukun seemed serene, but he supposed that they knew that they had the upper hand.

Yanchen slung an arm around him as he moved near, pulling him close so that Xiao Gui’s side brushed against Yanhua. “Good to have you back.”

He wanted to bite back something along the lines that he would have to put up with him again, when Zhengting spoke again.

“One more thing.”

Xiao Gui turned slowly back.

“I require that one of you remain with my house.” He raised his eyebrows. “I assume that the rest of you will be needing to travel out of the city to do your own investigations.”

Immediately, Xingjie’s hand was one his other shoulder, clutching it tightly. “Leave one of us with you?”

“Yes.” Zhu Zhengting tilted his head slightly to the side. “Don’t worry. We wouldn’t hurt you. I just need to make sure that you uphold your end of the deal.”

Xingjie stiffened, fingers digging into his shoulder. Xiao Gui peered up at him, saw the resignation on his face, then to save him the embarrassment, said quickly, “Of course. Thank you for your business.”

Zhengting smiled, effortlessly beautiful and dangerous at the same time. “I’ll be expecting you soon, then.”

Xiao Gui held back a shiver; Zhu Zhengting had proved himself very different from the man who looked like he stepped out of a watercolour painting and who had blushed when Cai Xukun undressed before him. He was colder than he seemed, smarter too, and skilled beyond measure. They were stupid to even have the idea of ambushing him in the first place.

Zhengting turned with a sweep of his robes, twin swords clanking at his side. Cai Xukun followed soon after with hardly a glance. Zeren shot one last disdainful look at Yanchen before walking off and Chengcheng didn’t even seem to acknowledge they were there. The only one who paused a moment was Minghao, who stared at them for a long minute, distrust and anger in his eyes. He made a point to grip his sword handle tightly, glared at Xiao Gui one more time as if to warn him against attacking them again, then ran off for the others.

Xingjie put both hands on his shoulders, pulled him close without a word, and Yanchen filled in the rest. 

* * *

**GLOSSARY**

Yanhua (烟花) - Yanchen’s sword; translates to “fireworks” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> our socials if you want to chat!  
>  **ree:** [twt](https://twitter.com/ramenreee) | [cc](https://curiouscat.me/ramenree)  
>  **mi:** [twt](https://twitter.com/maangoism) | [cc](https://curiouscat.me/aiwenism)


	8. 柒

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _In which Lin Yanjun is late._

It was an unusually hot day for spring. The willow branches hung still and heavy under the white sun. Lin Yanjun put one foot ahead of the other somewhat sluggishly, the humid morning making their progress to the capital city slower than he would have liked. At the very least, they were almost there—the city walls were visible now, and the distant call of hawkers and smell of sesame were in the air. 

"This is all your fault," You Zhangjing said again, a half-step behind him. "I can't believe we missed the opening day." 

Yanjun looked back at his companion. There was a thin sheen of sweat on his forehead already and it plastered his dark brown hair to his face. "The opening day is nothing but exhibitions. Where’s the fun in that?" 

"You really don't get it, do you?" Zhangjing glared at him, but Yanjun could tell that he wasn't truly angry. Well, not anymore. When Zhangjing first found out that they would be late to the _wulin_ festival, he had been furious with Yanjun. But was it really Yanjun's fault they were stalled because of the rain? (Yes, yes it was, because they wouldn't have been affected if he just agreed to leave earlier.)

"No, I guess not." Yanjun laughed lightly. He reached out to Zhangjing with one hand. "Here, let me take that. You don't want to get too tired out before the festivities even begin." 

Zhangjing shrugged off the bundle of cloth carrying his belongings and handed it to Yanjun, but kept the case containing his lute on him. Of course. Zhangjing could never part with his instrument, his livelihood, his passion—not even to let Yanjun carry it.

"Thank you," he said, grudgingly. Something seemed to occur to him. "Will you be fighting today?" 

Yanjun would be lying if he said he didn't want to. It had been a good while since Guhan had seen any action, and what better place to exercise it than a festival with titles to win? 

“Hopefully,” said Yanjun, “as long as my opponent isn’t Cai Xukun.” 

Zhangjing barked a laugh. “If that were the case, you may as well forfeit.” 

They reached the gates a short while later. Under the walls, in the paltry shade, merchants advertised their wares, from delicate pottery to famous street foods, to passing travellers. By now, Yanjun and Zhangjing had been joined by a stream of other arrivees to the capital, all in eager anticipation of the day’s festivities. The atmosphere made Yanjun giddy with excitement—not that he cared to admit it. 

Once in the city, finding lodgings proved difficult, and it was only after two hours of searching (and Zhangjing’s griping) did they find a small, quiet inn on the outskirts of town. The price was exorbitant for the quality of the accommodations but, by then, neither Zhangjing nor Yanjun had the energy to complain. They were lucky they could find somewhere to stay at all; many who arrived around the same time as they did would not be as fortunate.

“Once again, your fault,” Zhangjing said pointedly as they did an inspection of their room in the inn. He scuffed at a rust-red streak on the wooden floor that looked suspiciously like blood. There were similar dubious stains in multiple other spots, as if a murder had taken place and was hastily cleaned. “If something bad happens to us here—”

“Nothing bad will happen,” Yanjun assured him. He hardly believed in the gods, much less ghosts. “Not on my watch. I’ve done a commendable job of keeping you safe so far, have I not?” 

Zhangjing set his belongings down, all his belongings but his lute. “Enough. Let’s head to the festival before you miss your call to fight.”

It was nearly noon when they arrived at the tournament grounds, a ring of wooden stands around a sanded arena. Colourful flags hung limply in the absence of wind, stirring only occasionally with the weak breeze. Yanjun and Zhangjing headed straight for the day’s brackets, posted just outside the arena on a notice board surrounded by people. 

They pushed their way to the front of the crowd. Yanjun scanned the board for his name and found the bold strokes of ink near the bottom of the board. _Lin Yanjun, independent_ and _Li Wenhan, Yuehua_ , it said. 

Zhangjing cackled. “Oh, you’re done.” 

Yanjun glared at him. “Don’t be too sure about that. It’s not like it’s Zhu Zhengting or Han Geng.” 

“Are you Lin Yanjun?” Yanjun turned around. A stranger had inserted themselves into their conversation, a tall man with a snaggletooth that showed when he smiled. He wore a long sword at his side, from the hilt of which hung a symbol—some sect, most likely. “You got lucky, kid.” 

“What do you mean by that?” Yanjun asked, curious. 

The man laughed. “Zhu Zhengting was going to fight today. Against _you_.” Yanjun’s eyes widened. “But word is he withdrew. So did the First Sword. You have some gods to thank.” 

It took Yanjun a moment to comprehend what was being said. “Zhu Zhengting _and_ Cai Xukun both withdrew from individuals?” 

“Not only individuals—Zhu _tangzhu_ withdrew his bid for _mengzhu_ , too,” said the man. “Han Geng’s also in luck.” 

Zhangjing elbowed Yanjun playfully. “You might actually have a shot at the title this year, then,” he said. “Imagine that— _jianghu_ ’s First Sword, Lin Yanjun.” 

Although Zhangjing was joking, Yanjun could feel the hope ignite in him. If he wasn’t grossly misjudging his skills, he _did_ have a chance. It seemed too good to be true. 

“Are you sure, sir?” Yanjun asked the man. “ _Both_ of them?” 

“Without a doubt,“ the swordsman said. “Now, I should head back to my disciples; they are waiting for me to bring news.” He smiled. “Good luck.” 

Yanjun clasped his sword between both hands and dipped his head in a quick bow. The stranger nodded once in response and disappeared into the crowd. Yanjun turned to Zhangjing. 

“Say, what if I become the First Sword, You Zhangjing?” he ventured, leaning in close. “Would you write songs about me?” 

“In your dreams, maybe.” Zhangjing flicked him in the forehead, and he recoiled. “Ask me again once you actually win.” 

Yanjun laughed, half a sigh. “Have a little more faith, will you?”

Zhangjing smiled back, with his endearingly rabbit-like front teeth and all. “I’ve always had faith, Lin Yanjun.” Then he grabbed his arm. “But that might change if you miss your match. It’s in half a bell.” 

With that, Yanjun let Zhangjing pull him through the throngs of people, _wulin_ participants and onlookers alike.

* * *

Lin Yanjun ran the oilcloth over Guhan one final time before slipping the sword back into its sheath. In the sunlight, the dark steel had seemed almost to glow blue, and it instilled in him a sense of confidence like no other. 

Except for maybe You Zhangjing’s smiles and cheers when Yanjun’s name was called and he headed for his place in the arena amidst the beat of drums. He contemplated waving to Zhangjing before remembering himself—this was the _wulin_ festival, not some local tournament. He needed to focus and to appear serious lest others take him for anything but.

A few lengths away in the sand stood Li Wenhan, an acolyte of the most renowned sect in _jianghu_ —Yuehua. Li Wenhan was a well-built man who stood close to Yanjun in height, and his Yuehua training meant that he would be no simple opponent. The sword he carried was slightly shorter than Guhan, however, which meant that Yanjun may well have had the edge in reach. 

“Ready!” an announcer hollered over the mutterings of the crowd. Yanjun straightened and saw Wenhan do the same. “Begin!” 

A gong rang out over the arena. 

Li Wenhan made the first move, his sword sliding out of its sheath in a streak of silver light. He was fast, but so was Yanjun as he drew Guhan to meet his opponent’s blade in a clash of steel against steel. 

They broke apart, Yanjun bouncing a couple steps away to put distance between himself and his opponent. Li Wenhan had a great deal of power behind his strike, which he still felt resonating in his sword; Yanjun would be better avoiding them than blocking. 

“Come on,” Wenhan said impatiently. “You can’t avoid me forever.” 

“No,” Yanjun agreed. “But I would hate to disappoint the few people who bet in favour of my odds. So, forgive me if I’m cautious. My stakes are high.” 

Wenhan scoffed and lunged, sword arm outstretched. Yanjun tilted just enough to avoid the trajectory of the blade before bringing Guhan up in a strike against the base of Wenhan’s sword. Seeing this, the Yuehua swordsman twisted back, and Yanjun’s blow struck the middle of his blade. 

The impact had pushed him slightly off-balance. Yanjun swung Guhan in a wide arc at Li Wenhan as he attempted to regain even footing, forcing him back as he moved to avoid his sword. A roar rose from the crowd in the stands and above it all, Yanjun could hear Zhangjing’s voice. He could not make out his words, but he knew them to be encouraging, and smiled. 

“It isn’t over.” Li Wenhan interpreted his grin as arrogance. “Don’t be so pleased.” 

“You’re talkative,” Yanjun replied, continuing his unrelenting onslaught so that Wenhan had no chance to retaliate, only to block and avoid. By this point, his opponent was being pushed closer and closer to the outermost boundaries of the arena and would soon be forced to yield.

Then, Wenhan found an opening. As Yanjun pulled his sword arm back for another swing, Wenhan raised his sword high and cleaved down, leaving Yanjun no choice but to bring his sword and sheath up to block. He caught the incoming blade between the two and pushed back with all his might, sending both himself and his opponent reeling over the sand. 

Regaining his footing quickly, Yanjun dashed forward with Guhan drawn back and his sheath held out before him. Wenhan had not yet recovered from their last engagement, and his defensive swing was overly wide. Yanjun took this opportunity and slipped past his guard, slamming his sheath into Wenhan’s chest while keeping his sword at bay with Guhan.

Li Wenhan fell on his back in the sand with a dull _thud_. Before he could roll away, Yanjun planted one foot on the ground by his ribcage and another, more gently, on the wrist attached to his sword hand. For dramatic effect, he decided, he thrust the tip of Guhan into the ground by Wenhan’s head, sending a small spray of sand up into the air. 

“Yield,” he suggested. 

Li Wenhan grimaced, but he forced the words out. “I yield.” 

The gong rang out and the drums began again as the announcer declared Yanjun the winner. He stepped back and clasped his sword between both hands, bowing, and Wenhan did the same, stiffly. The audience cheered loudly over the drumbeats and Yanjun thought, again, that he could hear Zhangjing’s voice loudest of all. 

* * *

By the time night had begun to fall, Yanjun was drunk on the events of the day, from Zhangjing’s endearing nagging to the unexpected victory that set the betters into a frenzy and his own confidence higher than it should be. No, maybe he deserved it—he had defeated a contestant from _Yuehua_ , and it called for, at the very least, a bit of modest celebration. 

“Just because you won _one_ round doesn’t mean you’re going to win the title,” Zhangjing chastised him, but Yanjun knew he didn’t care, not truly. “Don’t let it get to your head.” 

“I _won’t_ , You Zhangjing,” he drawled, flashing the dimpled smile that he knew was equal parts arrogant and charming. Or so he’d been told, on numerous occasions. People seemed to like it, so he kept doing it, no matter how many times Zhangjing told him it was unbecoming for one reason or another. 

They were headed to the night market. The streets were choked full of market-goers and smoke and lanterns which cast the faces around them in warm light. Yanjun lavished in the atmosphere, drinking in the fragrant air greedily. 

“Zhangjing,” he said. “Let’s get some _zongzi_.” 

Zhangjing looked as if he was about to object but then he acquiesced. Yanjun, excited, bought them one _zongzi_ each and then found a quiet spot in an alley, away from the crowds, to savour them. 

“It’s messy,” Zhangjing lamented, undoing the string and peeling apart the bamboo leaf, which stuck to the glutinous rice beneath it rather firmly. Nonetheless, he bit into the tip of his _zongzi_ with an air of undeniable satisfaction. Watching Zhangjing eat was somewhat of a spectacle, Yanjun thought—he enjoyed food in a way that would make an onlooker feel satiated without eating anything themselves. 

Yanjun made quick work of his own _zongzi_ and waited for Zhangjing to finish. With his back against a stone wall, he scanned the night market, looking for another vendor to patronize. Just as he had decided upon a steamed bun cart, however, something—no, _someone_ —caught his eye. 

A man, with the lower half of his face covered, glowering straight at him from the narrow space between two buildings. Yanjun looked away and looked back, but the man’s gaze remained fixed upon him. 

“You Zhangjing,” he said in a hushed tone that was just enough to get his companion’s attention. He wanted a second opinion on whether something was truly amiss or if it was simply his paranoia at play. “Is it just me, or are we being watched?” 

Zhangjing paused chewing and followed his gaze to the masked man in the alleyway across the street. His eyes narrowed slightly. “There certainly seems to be… attention,” he said. “What do you think we should do?” 

“Why, put our theory to the test,” Yanjun replied, grinning in a way he hoped was reassuring. He didn’t want Zhangjing to worry, but something about the man was unnerving. Even more so with the rumours of serial murders circulating. “Let’s go to the far end of the street. Where they have _tang hulu_.” 

Zhangjing nodded and let Yanjun take the lead. They slipped out of their alley and headed for the far side of the street, weaving through the throngs of people. Every once in a while Yanjun would cast a quick glance back for any sign of the masked man, but it wasn’t until they’d reached the _tang hulu_ stand that he saw their surveiller dart behind a wall, hot in pursuit. 

“He’s following us,” Yanjun leaned in close to Zhangjing and whispered. “We’ll need to be careful until we know what he wants.” 

Zhangjing nodded again, this time more tensely. Then, he turned to the _tang hulu_ vendor and said, cheerfully, “We’ll take two.” 

He handed over two copper coins in exchange for two skewers of candied haw. He passed one to Yanjun and the two of them continued down the street, trying to appear as casual as possible when one believed they were being pursued by a mysterious stalker. 

The suspense was almost unbearable by the time their stalker decided to confront them, and despite his apprehensions, this relieved Yanjun when he compared it to their situation before.

“Lin Yanjun,” the man said, approaching them when Zhangjing and Yanjun stopped to sit down on a bench away from the bustle of the market. He was now joined by another, also masked and very suspicious in appearance. “Good evening.” 

Yanjun wasted no time on preamble. “With whom do I have the pleasure of speaking, and what do you want?” He gave them his chilliest glare as well, which was, if he could say so himself, fairly intimidating.

“We’re nobodies,” said the second man, matter-of-factly. “But we bear a message for you. More precisely, an invitation.” 

“From?” 

“We cannot tell you his identity until you confirm your acceptance,” the first man explained, “but we can tell you this—our master is building a new _wulin_ , a new world order. You could have a place in it, Lin _daxia_.”

At this, Yanjun snorted and shared an amused look with Zhangjing. “I’m no _daxia_ ,” he said, chuckling. “And you can forget about world order. That doesn’t concern us.” 

“It will affect all of _wulin._ Change is coming, whether you want it or not.”

 _This is beyond bizarre,_ Yanjun thought. Two masked strangers, who also happened to be awful at explaining their purpose, were trying to convince him to join a shadowy organization that relied on buffoons such as them? 

“It might help if you explained what _kind_ of change we're looking at,” Zhangjing said aridly, for both of them. 

The men paid him little heed and continued to address Yanjun, much to Zhangjing’s irritation: “The sects are worthless as they are now. Our master will ensure they take responsibility for their actions. That they live up to their promises of peace.”

It had been several years since Lin Yanjun had last been a part of a sect, but even so, the words didn't sit well with him. He'd left because he was tired of routine, not because he was disillusioned with institution. 

“And how will he do that?” he asked testingly. 

“He will become the new _mengzhu_ ,” the second man responded. “He will take the sects and create them anew. To do that, he is interested in the skilled swordsmen of _wulin_ . Like yourself, Lin _daxia_. People like you to help him execute his vision.” 

Zhangjing and Yanjun shared another glance. Judging from the look in Zhangjing’s eyes, he didn’t buy into whatever they were trying to sell, either. If their leader wanted to become the new _mengzhu_ , why not simply participate in the _wulin_? If he really was as powerful as their tone of voice implied, then it shouldn’t be too far a stretch to think that he might be able to rival the likes of Zhu Zhengting and Han Geng. Regardless of the finer details, something about the whole situation did not stand up to scrutiny. 

“As flattered as I am, I don’t think ‘executing’ someone else’s vision for social upheaval is for me,” Yanjun said coldly, standing up with one hand on Guhan. The men backed up warily, their hands drifting to their own weapons. “Let’s go, Zhangjing.” 

“Then he will show you no mercy when everything changes,” the first man warned. “You may come to regret what you said tonight.”

Yanjun smirked through his apprehensions, as was his custom. “Escalated to threats now, have we?” he quipped. “Very well. Maybe if I’m paid handsomely my decision might change.” 

Then he pushed past the two with Zhangjing in tow. Their gazes seemed to bore into the back of his head and, as he walked away, he began to wonder if he had said the wrong thing.

* * *

**GLOSSARY**

Guhan (孤寒) - Yanjun’s sword; there is no precise translation for the name but it can be loosely translated to “solitary cold” 

_Zongzi_ \- a Chinese delicacy consisting of glutinous rice wrapped in a bamboo leaf and steamed

  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yanjun and zhangjing are here! <3
> 
> also... we have nothing against wenhan... just other people in this industry might appear from time to time to fill in minor roles. but also, if anyone can spot who else especially cool cameoed in this chapter, comment or dm and we'll be very pleased hehe
> 
> our socials if you want to chat!  
>  **ree:** [twt](https://twitter.com/ramenreee) | [cc](https://curiouscat.me/ramenree)  
>  **mi:** [twt](https://twitter.com/maangoism) | [cc](https://curiouscat.me/aiwenism)


	9. 捌

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _In which Chengcheng learns the way of the wulin festival._

In Fan Chengcheng’s very humble opinion, the second day of the  _ wulin  _ festival was nowhere as comfortable as the first.

There were more people, for starters, even if Chengcheng didn’t know how that could be possible. Yesterday’s crowd had packed the stands full to watch the exhibition matches, the chatter and shouting drowning out any other noise. However, today was even louder, with the people who were only interested in the results of the actual competition filling the stands as well. 

“If you’re going to be here, at least keep up.” Huang Minghao looked back at him from where he was navigating through the crowd in front with loathing on his face. “Or, just leave and stop pestering me.”

He didn’t answer, but rather continued to press forward. Inwardly, he scoffed. There was no way Huang Minghao could leave him behind, not after what had happened last night.

“Fuck this,” Minghao muttered, pushing past a couple, who looked affronted as they passed. “Why couldn’t Zhengting just let me go alone?”

Chengcheng knew the answer to that too. When Minghao first asked to sit in the common seats, away from the spacier, more comfortable boxes reserved for Yuehua, but well within a better view, Zhengting had refused. He had been reluctant to allow them to separate from the group when just yesterday night they had been attacked. However, Minghao had pestered him, and with their  _ tangzhu _ already needing to hurry out with Wenjun to meet with the  _ mengzhu _ , Zhengting had given in, with one condition: that Chengcheng accompany him.

He reminded Minghao of this, who only rolled his eyes. “I wish he let Xinchun come with me instead, then.” He paused for a second, seeming to realize something as a wry grin spread across his face. “Oh, right. He needs me to protect poor, defenseless you.”

“Fuck off.” He brushed past Minghao as he forced his way to the front of the stands. He roughly shoved aside a man leaning against the seats before plopping himself down in the spot. The man opened his mouth, anger blooming on his face, but shut his mouth meekly when he saw the symbol on Chengcheng’s back.

Minghao slid in uncomfortably beside him, shooting a look at the man still staring at the Yuehua symbol stamped on their robes. He bowed once quickly and hurried off. Chengcheng sighed again.

“Shame we won’t get to see Cai Xukun in the festival this year,” he said idly, more to himself than anyone else. Minghao picked up on it anyway.

“Shame we won’t get to see _you_ compete in the festival ever.” 

Chengcheng ignored him, letting silence stew between them as he stared at the grounds.

The matches were about to begin, a procession of drummers gathering around the arena with their batons at the ready. Chengcheng tapped his fingers on his knee impatiently, eavesdropping on the men next to him to kill time. 

“Did you hear? The First Sword withdrew from the competition.” 

“As a matter of fact, I did… but I didn’t believe it until I saw for myself that his name had been replaced.” 

“A shame, truly; I was hoping to see him duel this year. Against Zhu Zhengting. Do you think he withdrew because he feared losing the title to him?” 

“Well, Zhu Zhengting withdrew as well, so unless the two of them had the exact same thing in mind…” 

Chengcheng excused himself from the conversation he was never invited to in the first place. He wasn’t sure he wanted to hear their conjecture but between listening to strangers talk about people he knew and listening to Minghao… well, one was evidently the lesser of two evils. As Huang Minghao was about to prove. 

“Did you hear?” he asked, in an eerily similar tone to one of the men Chengcheng had just eavesdropped on. “They’re saying Yuehua’s bunch is exceptional this year. Isn’t that exciting for us?” 

A sinking feeling in Chengcheng’s stomach told him he was about to be mocked. 

“Did you think that included you, Fan Chengcheng?” 

_ Not as bad as I thought.  _

“Of course not,” he returned. “I’m not even competing this year.” 

Chengcheng almost let out a breath, thinking that was the worst of it. But then Minghao laughed. 

“I can already hear them say it,” he said. “‘Yuehua’s crop is disappointing this year.’”

Chengcheng knew better than to respond, instead turning away from Minghao and staring into the crowd instead. From beside him, the men he had been eavesdropping upon were talking again. 

“I heard there’s a young prodigy here from Yuehua. Just barely old enough to compete, but already more skilled than many of the experienced swordsmen here.” 

Fan Chengcheng knew exactly who the man was referring to, and thankfully the person in question was too fixated on the preparations happening in the arena below to hear the conversation and the praise. Huang Minghao didn’t need his ego stroked any more, anyway. 

* * *

_ “Where have you been?” Chen Linong cried as they filed back into the inn, his angry features a complete contrast to the innocent, calm air they had seen of him during the day. A vein was pulsing in his temple. “We came back and you were gone!” He grabbed Cai Xukun’s arm tightly. Behind him, Huang Xinchun and Li Quanzhe looked uncomfortable and nervous, respectively. _

_ Cai Xukun himself was unfazed; he didn’t even shake off the hand on his arm. “We went to meet with Xiao Gui’s friends.” _

_ “Xiao Gui?” _

_ “Ah.. the assassin.” _

_ “What?” Chen Linong almost yelped. “You’re injured!” _

_ “What of it? I had Zhu  _ tangzhu _ and his house with me.” He gestured behind him at Zhu Zhengting and the rest of them.  _

_ Chen Linong looked at him incredulously for an extended moment, as if he couldn’t believe what Cai Xukun was saying. Then, he sighed and let go of his arm. “I suppose,” he muttered darkly. “Though if I knew you were going with them, I would have made you come with me to retrieve the bodies.” _

_ “Did you bring them?” _

_ “They’re in the extra room,” Li Quanzhe piped up. “We somehow got all four of them there without suspicion.” _

_ “Excellent. Thank you,.” Zhu Zhengting said. He addressed Cai Xukun and Chen Linong next. “ _ Da xia _ , I’m assuming that you don’t wish to return to your inn. You could stay here; Huang Minghao and Fan Chengcheng wouldn’t mind giving you their room for a few evenings.” _

_ Fan Chengcheng watched Chen Linong exchange a quick glance with Cai Xukun. Both men seemed to agree on something. Cai Xukun cleared his throat when he faced Zhu Zhengting again. “Actually, Linong and I were thinking that we should leave the city tonight.” _

_ “Tonight?” Wenjun suddenly said as he slid open the door with an armful of blankets. “But you’re still injured,  _ da xia _!” _

_ “Aren’t you participating in the individuals tomorrow?” Minghao wondered aloud. _

_ Xukun shook his head. “I won’t be able to fight well with an injury, and I do not wish to aggravate it any further. There is no point in staying here any longer.” _

_ “You should still stay here until you’ve recovered at least,” Wenjun argued. “You don’t have to compete tomorrow to stay here to heal.” _

_ “I think it would be better for me and Linong to get a head start. We only came out of my obligation to defend my title... but now that that’s out of the question, we might as well leave early.” _

_ Wenjun turned helplessly to Zhengting, who only raised his eyebrows. He sighed. _

_ “I suppose. But  _ da xia _ , would you be safe if anyone attacks you again?” _

_ Chengcheng wanted to ask the same question. Cai Xukun was skilled, certainly, but travelling when injured was dangerous, no matter how talented he may be.  _

_ The First Sword only smiled. “That won’t be necessary. I’ll have Linong with me.” _

_ The boy in question sighed, looking exasperated but with a fond look in his eyes. Chengcheng couldn’t help but be surprised. Could Chen Linong use a sword? _

_ “Can you fight?” Zhengting asked delicately. Chen Linong nodded, a bit impatiently. _

_ “You’re bound to learn some swordsmanship when you travel with the First Sword,” he said dryly.  _

_ Chengcheng had known that the First Sword had a companion who had never been seen in the ring. He had supposed he'd rarely need to draw his sword, what with who he travelled with, but now that Chen Linong had pointed it out for him, he didn't exactly seem like someone he would want to cross _

_ “ _ Da xia _ ,” Zhengting said gingerly, “do you not want to help investigate who attacked us?” _

_ Xukun met him levelly. “I have no concern for  _ wulin  _ politics. As long as Linong and I are still alive at the end of the day, it’s no business of mine.” _

_ Zhengting stiffened, but if Cai Xukun noticed anything, he kept his silence. _

* * *

The crowd suddenly roared. Chengcheng jerked his attention back to the grounds, where the drums were now beating out a steady rhythm. 

The first match of the day was underway, and Chengcheng could see Ding Zeren walking to the centre, Yuehua’s symbol on his back and Zidian clenched in his fist. He looked handsome, his dark brown hair swept back behind a black headband, his eyes hard and focused on the opposite side of the fighting grounds. Judging from the chatter of the audience around them, he could tell that this was an anticipated match. Even more so after Zeren’s victory yesterday.

“Ding Zeren of Yuehua!”

Loud cheering as Zeren walked to the center of the grounds. Minghao was screaming so loudly beside him that Chengcheng thought his ears were going to bleed. The audience immediately began to mutter amongst themselves, wondering who Zeren’s opponent—an independent swordsman named Zhang Yankai—could be.

“It’s a shame though. Going up against a Yuehua swordsman in the first round,” Chengcheng heard someone say from his right.

Then, loud and clear:

“Zhang Yankai!”

A tall man appeared at the opposite end of the grounds, and the crowd gasped. He was taller than Zeren, broad-shouldered and well-muscled, with a hulking sword by his side. He was smirking directly at Zeren, who Chengcheng noticed visibly tensed. 

Though the man’s upper face was covered with a black mask, Chengcheng could still see his eyes, the glint of mischief reflected in them, and the smirk on his lips. Then, he noticed the bright red flowers woven into his hair, and suddenly realized who it was.

“Is that…?” Minghao turned, gaping at Chengcheng with his mouth open, and in his shock, he gaped back.

“Isn’t that one of the men who we met with last night?” Minghao stuttered. “The one who flirted with Zeren-ge?”

“Why the hell is he here?” he choked back. They both turned to gape back at the man.

The man—Zhou… Zhou Yanchen?—was saying something to Zeren, mouth still curved in an ominous smile. Chengcheng wouldn’t be surprised if he was flirting with him again. On the other hand, however, Zeren was stiffer and tenser than ever.

“Zeren doesn’t like mercenaries,” he muttered. Minghao agreed with a nod, eyes wide.

The drumming began again, rising in speed, until a final loud bang of a gong began the fight. Chengcheng closed his hands around each other and leaned forward to observe the duel.

Yanchen seemed to be taunting him a bit, calling out something he couldn’t pick up, that infuriating smile still adorning his lips. Zeren paced carefully around the grounds, sword clenched tight into his hand, the lines of his back rigid. A few moments of this, both walking around the centre, staring each other down. 

Then suddenly, Zeren threw himself forward. His speed was astounding as he swiped forward with a bold slash at Yanchen’s stomach. Yanchen moved at the same time, bringing his sword up to block it. The two swords clanged sharply in the spring air, the sound jarring over the roar of the crowd. 

They fought. Zeren was quick and aggressive, darting around fast and boldly taking stabs and slashes at his opponent. Yanchen responded with just as much passion, his strength throwing Zeren off as he defended against his blows. They were equally matched, exchanging blow for blow. All Chengcheng could do was wonder why a mercenary would try to compete in the individual competition.

Chengcheng watched as Zeren brought his sword down on top of Yanchen’s. He pressed his entire body weight down on it, his arms and legs shaking. Yanchen was trembling too, Chengcheng could tell, and with a loud glide of metal, he slid his sword out under Zeren’s and back behind him. He was defenseless for a fraction of a second, but Zeren was thrown off balance, and he stumbled forward. The crowd gasped. Minghao’s fingers suddenly dug into Chengcheng’s forearm, but he was so busy holding his breath that he didn’t throw it off. 

“Fuck, Zeren—” Minghao gasped, but Yanchen had moved. His blade came swooshing down the air, a whir of silver under the white sun. Zeren raised his sword to defend, but he wasn’t fast enough. Both froze as Yanchen held his sword beside Zeren’s neck.

The crowd was silent. 

Then the stands exploded in noise. 

Minghao was shaking beside him, his fingers still buried in Chengcheng’s flesh. Chengcheng bent forward to peer at his face, and he found it red and gaping at the ground.

“Minghao…?”

When he didn’t respond, Chengcheng dragged his eyes back to the grounds. 

He watched as Yanchen raised his sword away from Zeren’s neck and slipped it back into his scabbard. He smiled at the crowd, who cheered for him, but then quickly returned his attention to the boy still bent over the ground. He held a hand out, as if to offer his help. He was still smiling. 

Zeren didn’t touch him. Slowly, he rose, not sparing a glance at Yanchen’s face, and faced the crowd. He gave a very deep bow, then turned back to his opponent. Yanchen’s smile slipped off his face as he bowed stiffly, then paced out of sight.

Minghao grabbed Chengcheng harder. “Let’s go talk to him.”

“Are you stupid?” he snapped. “The last thing he’d want right now is a pity talk from us.” He lowered his voice. “Especially after he’s lost to a mercenary.”

Minghao stared at him, looking like he wanted to argue, but then relaxed and nodded. 

Chengcheng glanced at the center of the grounds, where Yanchen was still standing, alone now. The crowd was still cheering for him, screaming for him to take his mask off. He didn’t glance at them. Instead, he turned and walked off, mouth expressionless and hands already slipping his sword back into its sheath.

* * *

The day was a lot quieter after that.

Chengcheng stayed pressed against Minghao as they watched the next two rounds. They were less exciting than that of the one between Zeren and Yanchen-- Kunyin against Chenxing and Ciwen against Hongyi — and the effect was clear on the audience. While the duels carried out below them, the people around him buzzed with gossip and muttering. 

Most of them talked about the masked man who had taken down a Yuehua swordsman. They wondered who he could be, where he could be from. Someone wondered aloud if he could hold his ground against the other Yuehua swordsmen if they were competing, which spurred on a couple of minutes of heated debate. Others lamented the fact that no other swordsmen from Zhu Zhengting’s house were competing. Later in the day, someone said that the man had withdrawn abruptly, causing another succession of debate. One woman near him sighed and wistfully wished that he would have taken off his mask. 

Minghao was, for once, silent.

He was brooding, Chengcheng knew. He didn’t once turn to look at Chengcheng, much less speak to him or taunt him. Instead, Minghao leaned forward and propped his face on his arms, a stony expression glaring at the grounds below. Chengcheng, glad of the silence, didn’t interrupt him.

They didn’t go find Zeren. Minghao didn’t propose looking for him again and Chengcheng knew better than to offer it up himself. Xinchun and Quanzhe were better for comforting him in times like this, and when Zhengting and Wenjun came back from meeting with Han Geng, they would be there for him too. Besides, he thought idly at one point, the appearance of him and Minghao would just get on his nerves even more.

No one came to talk to them either. Chengcheng saw many curious glances being thrown their way at the sight of the Yuehua emblem on their robes, but as soon as he looked back, the people turned away with a flurry of rapid whispers. He sighed. At least no one was stupid enough to incite Yuehua swordsmen after a loss of one of their own. He would have not really minded, but the boy beside him certainly would, and it showed on his darkening face.

But as the second match was being cleared away (Hongyi had won), Chengcheng felt a foreign poke on his shoulder.

He turned and came face to face with a young man who seemed like he was in his early twenties, cheeks red and eyes a little too bright for Chengcheng’s taste. 

“Can I sit here?” He asked, breathing a little heavily. “I had to squeeze past so many people and I didn’t want to miss this match.”

Before Chengcheng could give a response, Minghao twisted his head to glare at him. “Can’t you see how packed we are?” he snapped ungraciously. Chengcheng winced.

However, rather than look scandalized or back off, the man grinned widely. “It’s not too bad in this row. Look!” He pointed to the other side of Minghao. “It’s like people purposely want to leave you some room!”

Minghao stared back, surprised. Chengcheng eyes widened as well.  _ Is this guy stupid or just really, really optimistic? _

The man continued on cheerily. “See, if you move over a little bit, I can squeeze in right here beside your friend. Here, let’s try it.”

Seeing the incredulous expression on Minghao’s face, Chengcheng thought for a second that he was going to snap at him to make him go away. To his surprise, he obliged with a slight shrug and moved over. Chengcheng quickly followed his lead.

The man sank down beside him with a loud huff, immediately stretching his legs out in front of him. “Phew! It was so packed down there and I was so tired of standing all day. Yanjun said that it wouldn’t take that long, but it’s been hours and he’s just now competing.” Suddenly, as if shocked, he sat up straight and smiled at Chengcheng. “Oh, silly me. I forgot to introduce myself. I’m You Zhangjing, a travelling musician. Who are you?”

Chengcheng glanced at Minghao, who looked back just as lost. He turned back to the grinning man and said, a little uncertainly, “...Chengcheng?” 

The man laughed. “You’re sure that’s your name? You sounded pretty uncertain.”

“My name is Fan Chengcheng.” 

“It’s nice to meet you. And you?” He peered at Minghao with interest. “Who are you?”

“Minghao. Huang Minghao,” he said gruffly, sitting up. “This idiot and I are from Yuehua.”

“Oh, Yuehua!” You Zhangjing chirped brightly. “Yanjun tells me that you’re all very good. Actually, he’s about to fight one of you in the next match!”

“Yanjun?” 

“He’s my travelling companion. We tour around  _ jianghu _ most of the time, but Yanjun said that we could have some fun in the capital so here we are. He’s pretty good with a sword as well!”

“ _ Is _ he,” Minghao said passively, though the twitching of his eyebrow indicated to Chengcheng that he was more interested than he let on. “How good?”

“I just know that he’s good enough to keep me and him safe if we get attacked.” Zhangjing laughed. “But I guess we’ll see how good he actually is when he fights. He was supposed to fight Zhu Zhengting today, but he withdrew, so he’s fighting someone else from your sect instead.”

“Someone else?” Chengcheng said faintly. So this was the guy Zhengting mentioned he was to fight last night. He was a lucky man that Zhengting withdrew before it could happen. 

“A man named Li Wenhan. Do you know him?”

“We’ve met,” Minghao said shortly, but then quirked an eyebrow. “Do you think that he’ll win against him?”

Zhangjing beamed, gummy smile and bunny teeth on full display. “I hope he does. I have faith in him.”

Minghao didn’t say anything more, but Chengcheng knew what he was thinking. No Yuehua swordsman would be easy to take down (except himself, he thought bitterly), so this You Zhangjing must either be telling the truth when he said that his friend Yanjun was good, or he was just naive. Chengcheng looked at the red cheeked man beside him peering like a child down at the grounds, noticing the lute strapped on his back, and decided on the latter.

“Li Wenhan of Yuehua!” The announcer suddenly roared. The crowd cheered. They buzzed and muttered amongst each other.

“Another Yuehua.”

“Maybe this one will give Yuehua their first win.”

Chengcheng watched as his  _ shixiong _ , Li Wenhan, a handsome man known for his beautiful sword mastery as well as quite well known and sociable, smiled and waved at the cheering crowd. The women were screaming so loudly, Chengcheng was becoming worried for their voices.

“Lin Yanjun!”

Somehow, the screaming became even louder. But as he looked at the man who had strode into the center, Chengcheng’s mouth fell open.

Chengcheng gaped at the man who walked out onto the grounds. He was, by no exaggeration, one of the most stunning, handsome men he had ever seen, which was saying something considering how he got to see Zhengting everyday. But while Zhengting was gracefully beautiful, delicate and composed, this man was all sharp angles and smouldering gazes. He hardly looked at the crowd when he walked into the center, heavy-lidded eyes staring Wenhan down. 

Chengcheng glanced to his side to make sure that he wasn’t the only one reacting the way he was, and, luckily, Minghao seemed just as stunned. His mouth hung open, his eyes wide as he stared at the strikingly handsome man below. For a second, Chengcheng didn’t even think that he was real.

But then, Zhangjing was screaming beside him, louder than anyone else in the crowd. “Lin Yanjun!”

Yanjun looked up then in their general direction, and Chengcheng felt his heart stop. His gaze was intense, his looks almost blindingly attractive, and when he saw Zhangjing beside him, he smiled warmly in a way that made everyone in the audience wail. A deep dimple appeared at the side of his mouth when he did so.

Zhangjing was beaming beside him, smile bright like the sun, and when Chengcheng glanced at his eyes, he saw that there was nothing but pure adoration and pride. He wondered for a moment if they were together, but then, the gong rang out and the match began.

Yanjun was ruthless as he fought too. He hacked at Wenhan almost brutally, the bluish-silver of his blade glinting under the sun. The crowd murmured with interest as they fought, and Zhangjing cheered every time he cut at Wenhan. Chengcheng himself was starstruck, in awe of how fast his sword moved, at the way his body cut forward sharp as a blade to dodge the attacks coming his way and push back. 

Zhangjing certainly was right when he said that Yanjun was good. Chengcheng could see Minghao’s eyes widen as Yanjun’s swings became sharper, faster, rougher, and he knew that despite all his talk, Minghao was just as intimidated by this fighter as he was. 

Yanjun swung his sword in a sharp downward strike, Wenhan barely defending it as he lifted his sword up. The blades met with a loud clang and a flurry of sparks.

The crowd roared. Zhangjing was screaming beside him. Minghao’s eyes flashed. And Chengcheng, watching the way Lin Yanjun’s sword danced under the sunlight, wished that he could fight like him as well. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chengstin are quite the pair in this, aren't they?
> 
> our socials if you want to chat!  
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	10. 玖

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _In which Zhu Zhengting has tea with three._

“Are you sure this is for the best?” Bi Wenjun asked him as they left the  _ wulin _ grounds for the Yuehua pavilion, where Zhu Zhengting was certain they could find Han Geng. “Would it not aid our investigation if we had the  _ mengzhu _ rank behind us?”

“It’ll make little difference,” Zhengting said dismissively. “Han Geng will help us. Better we get a head start on investigating now.” 

Wenjun hummed in acquiescence and they walked the rest of the way in silence, Zhengting brewing in his own thoughts. He hadn’t gone back to sleep since their meeting with the mercenaries last night, but his body was still buzzing with energy, the sort that only accompanied having crossed swords with death.

As much as he had repeatedly assured the others that he hadn’t been harmed, the feeling of his blade rising up to block the knife aimed for his throat still tingled in his arm hours afterwards, surviving in his knowledge of just  _ how _ close the assassin—Xiao Gui, they called him, and aptly—had come to taking his life. He could only begin to imagine what might have become of him had Zhu Xingjie and Zhou Yanchen taken part in the operation as well. He wasn’t sure if Minghao or Chengcheng or Zeren could tell, but Guoran’s lack of notoriety as a mercenary group was not because they were small in number, but because they were too powerful, too smart to leave many traces behind. 

In the pavilion, Han Geng was in conversation with two disciples of his house, discussing tactics for their upcoming matches. When he spotted Zhengting and Wenjun, Han Geng held up a hand and put their discussion to a halt.

“Good morning, Zhu  _ tangzhu _ ,” he greeted him. Han Geng always addressed him formally when other disciples were around. “How are you today?” 

“Fine, thank you,” Zhengting replied curtly. “I need to talk to you in private.” 

The disciples—Zhengting recognized them as Li Wenhan and Jin Shengzhu—looked slightly irritated, but did not argue when Han Geng sent them out with a wave of his hand. Wenjun stayed by his side, though, and Han Geng knew him better than to question it. When Zhengting was certain the other two were out of earshot, he cut to the chase: “An attempt was made on my life last night.” 

Han Geng blinked several times in rapid succession, then stood. “By whom?” 

“An assassin of the mercenary group that calls themselves Guoran,” Zhengting answered, thinking back to their meeting. “Do you know anything about them?” 

“No, the name is unfamiliar,” Han Geng said, his brows knitting into a frown. “But they must be very skilled or very foolish to make an attempt on  _ your _ life, of all people. I take it they’re dead.” 

Zhengting shook his head. “I struck a deal instead. In exchange for his life, Guoran aids us in investigations. I need to find out who ordered the hit.” 

Han Geng mulled over that for a moment, and it was obvious he disapproved of the decision. “Have you considered your competitors in the  _ wulin _ ?”

“Yes,” Zhengting said. “But none struck me as capable of mustering such a fortune to pay for their commission. It would be much simpler to attempt to defeat me fair and square.” 

“It’s possible they were lying about the sum,” Han Geng offered. His eyes were difficult to read. “I suggest you focus on the competition. A good show of force today could dissuade further attacks. As soon as this all concludes, Zhengting, I promise you—we’ll launch a full investigation into it. For now, though, it might be against our sect’s best interest to make this issue public, not with so many people around.” 

He laughed shortly. “I’ve already withdrawn from the competition,  _ shixiong _ ,” he said. Han Geng’s eyes widened in surprise. “I intend to pursue the leads given to us by Guoran. We need to uncover the man behind this before he strikes again.”

“Zhengting, you can’t trust the word of mercenaries,” Han Geng argued, grasping his forearm. Zhengting didn’t move away, but instead levelled his senior with a firm look. Sighing, Han Geng’s grip loosened. “There’s no talking you out of this, is there?” 

“No,” Zhengting agreed. “I’d like to think I know what I’m doing.” 

Han Geng smiled, almost sadly. “Just be careful,” he finally said. “If I’m ever compromised, the sect needs you.” 

Zhengting was both taken aback and oddly touched by the concern, but he returned the smile, tentatively. “I’ll keep that in mind,  _ shixiong _ .” 

With that, he took his leave of the current  _ wulin mengzhu _ , Wenjun following him out of the pavilion, having never said a single word throughout the entire exchange. Nevertheless, Zhengting was glad for his company; he wouldn’t admit it aloud, but everything seemed easier when he had a companion. Perhaps that’s why he wielded two blades, he thought, amusing himself slightly. 

“ _ Mengzhu _ is right, you know,” Wenjun said to him, after they were well away from the pavilion and heading back to the arena at a brisk pace hopefully to arrive in time to see Zeren’s match in its entirety. “It goes against common sense to trust a mercenary.”

“Some would say it goes against common sense to trust anyone at all,” Zhengting quipped back, his mouth twisting wryly. “Wenjun, we have a shot in the dark, but it’s far better than no shot at all.” 

Wenjun grabbed his arm and stopped him, looking serious. Then, he said “Relax,” and broke into a gentle smile. “I’m not saying we shouldn’t investigate. I’m saying we should be prudent, is all.” 

Zhengting felt his own lips lift in both relief and a sudden surge of affection for Bi Wenjun, who had been his closest confidant for as long as he had been at Yuehua—the better part of a decade, maybe even longer. He was close to him in age, and so willing to listen; Zhengting sometimes wondered what good deeds he must have performed in a previous life to deserve Wenjun now. 

“When am I not?” he asked, drawn into the lightness. “Besides, I have you making sure I’m not an idiot.” 

Wenjun snorted. “We could easily be two idiots.” 

They laughed, and the phantom pressures on Zhengting seemed to ease some and he could breathe more easily after they stopped.

* * *

They heard the clip-clopping of hooves against paved roads before they saw the riders. The crowds parted for two mounted men, dressed in the black and red robes of government officials. The backs of their robes were emblazoned with a burgundy  _ fu _ , marking them for members of Governor Wang’s household—upon closer inspection, Zhengting recognized one of the men as none other than the governor’s son himself, Wang Ziyi. The man with him seemed familiar, too, as if they had public appearances together before—likely a close guard. 

“What’s Wang  _ gongzi _ doing here?” Wenjun asked quietly. The people around them were murmuring, too. “It looks like official business. Do you think there’s an ongoing investigation? I’ve heard whispers of a large case on the governor’s hands.” 

Zhengting pursed his lips, a thought suddenly occurring to him. “We can ask.” 

He wove through the throngs of people around them towards where Wang Ziyi was dismounting. When the man in question caught sight of him, he smiled and dipped his head in respect. “Zhu  _ tangzhu _ . A pleasure to see you here.” 

“Likewise, Wang  _ gongzi _ .” Zhengting put one hand in front of the other and bowed back. “I hope you’ve been doing well.” 

Zhengting first met the governor’s son at the  _ wulin _ festival two years ago, where he had given a speech at the end of the festivities. They had spoken at the ending ceremonies as Zhengting was flooded with congratulations, and Wang Ziyi’s self-effacing well-wishes had been a breath of fresh air amidst the cloying flattery. 

“As well as one does during such a busy time,” Wang Ziyi said, with a low laugh. He waved the other man over to him. Like Ziyi, he was tall, fair-skinned, and handsome, with dimples that softened his features dramatically when he greeted them with a polite, unassuming smile. “I believe an introduction is in order. This is the captain of my guard, Dong Youlin.”

“A pleasure.” Zhengting nodded to him, before gesturing to Wenjun. “And this is my colleague Bi Wenjun.” Wenjun clasped his sword between his hands and bowed as Dong Youlin mirrored the action. “Now that we’re acquainted, might I ask what brings you to  _ wulin _ today,  _ gongzi _ ?” 

Ziyi shrugged. “A brief respite, is all,” he said. Zhengting couldn’t help but think that there was more to it. “Besides, I’d heard you were competing today. And the First Sword.” 

At that, Zhengting could only grimace. “I’m sorry to disappoint,  _ gongzi _ , but Cai  _ daxia _ and I have both withdrawn from the competition.” 

“Withdrawn?” Shock flitted over Wang Ziyi’s composed features briefly. “Forgive me if I intrude, but why?” 

Briefly, he considered withholding the truth from Ziyi—after all, he hadn’t told him the whole truth, either. But then he said, “I suggest we speak somewhere more private, Wang  _ gongzi _ .”

Ziyi looked at his guard and back at Zhengting and Wenjun, before nodding resolutely. “Then I know just the place.” 

Ten minutes later, they were seated in a nearby tea house where Wang Ziyi was apparently a regular. They had a private room out of sight from the other patrons and out of earshot of any unwanted listeners. Ziyi, benevolent as only the rich and powerful could be, ordered  _ longjing _ tea for the four of them.

“So, why is it that both you and the First Sword have withdrawn from the  _ wulin _ festival?” Ziyi prompted, once the waiter had left. 

Zhengting reached into the pockets of his robes and retrieved the  _ lingpai _ Cai Xukun had left with him last night—the First Sword’s abrupt departure still puzzled him, but he could only accept the reality.  _ Each to their own, as it were _ . 

“Last night, the First Sword and I were both attacked at our lodgings,” he explained, setting the wooden tablet on the table between them. From the way Wang Ziyi shot a look at Dong Youlin, Zhengting could tell that they recognized the symbol. “Cai  _ daxia’ _ s attackers were carrying this on their person. You seem to know it.” 

Ziyi and Youlin shared uneasy looks. The former cleared his throat. “We do,” he said. “The same emblem as the one on the  _ lingpai _ was found on the casualties of a series of murders we have been investigating.” 

Zhengting wasn’t really surprised. There had been whispers, like Wenjun said, in the past month that reached even Yuehua. “I was also attacked. By an assassin. He cited an anonymous employer. We think that this might have something to do with the attack on the First Sword and, it seems, the recent murders.” 

Wang Ziyi reached out and took the  _ lingpai _ , turning it over in his hand. “The attackers… did they escape, or do you have them captive, by any chance?” 

Zhengting shook his head. “Dead, unfortunately. But you’re welcome to inspect the bodies.” 

“I can send some men to retrieve them and bring them back to base,” Dong Youlin offered to Ziyi, then turned to Zhengting. “Would that be alright with you, Zhu  _ tangzhu _ ?” 

There wasn’t much more Yuehua could do with the corpses, Zhengting thought, so he said as much. “If possible, I’d like to have any findings relayed back to me, if possible,” he added. “Yuehua is doing our own investigation into this part of the case.”

Ziyi nodded to Youlin in wordless affirmation. The guard stood, lowered his head in acknowledgement, and left the room, presumably to arrange for the transport of the bodies. Zhengting watched him go, then turned back to Ziyi.

“Would it be too much to assume that you have some insight into the motivations behind the killings and attacks,  _ gongzi _ ?” Zhengting asked, folding his hands on the table. “Something to do with the real reason you’re at the festival today?” 

Ziyi sighed, closing his eyes briefly. “You won’t like to hear it, Zhu  _ tangzhu _ .” 

“Whether I  _ like _ it or not has no bearing on the vitality of this information,” Zhengting responded curtly. “We can help you, Wang  _ gongzi _ .”

“Yes, you can,” Ziyi agreed. “Youlin and I are considering the possibility that whoever is behind the murders, and now likely the attacks on you and Cai  _ daxia _ , want to destabilize  _ jianghu _ and  _ wulin _ by eliminating powerful swordsmen. All previous murders were well-known and formidable warriors in their areas, members of sects or powerful mercenary groups.  _ That _ ,  _ tangzhu _ , is why I came to the festival today—the next targets may very well be here. And if the events of last night are anything to judge by, yourself and the First Sword may have been their marks. Only, they didn’t succeed.” 

Zhengting frowned. Something didn’t add up, something he couldn’t quite place, until Wenjun spoke up: “When Cai  _ daxia _ came to us last night, he told us of an offer his assailants made him. To join them. Is it possible that the man behind all of this wants to recruit powerful swordsmen, and when that fails, eliminates them to keep them quiet and instill fear in others? It would kill two birds with one stone.” 

Something gleamed in Ziyi’s eyes. “That’s certainly a possibility,” he mused. “But it would beg the question:  _ why _ ?” 

Silence fell over them. Zhengting lifted his teacup and took a sip. This was much larger than what they originally thought—to think that they had considered the possibility of the mastermind simply being jealous competition. 

_ No _ . His eyebrows knit. The situation still made no sense. If the organization was so powerful, why hire mercenaries to eliminate Zhengting as opposed to simply doing the job themselves? He also received no offers, nothing—perhaps the cases had no connection, after all. Yet something, perhaps instinct, told him otherwise. 

“I think it would do us all some good to think on it,” he said abruptly. “Wenjun and I will return to the  _ wulin _ festival. We will be on our guard. If you could keep us informed of the returns of your investigation, Wang  _ gongzi _ , we will keep you apprised of ours.” 

Ziyi nodded. “It can be arranged. Thank you for your assistance, Zhu  _ tangzhu _ .” 

Zhengting pushed back his chair and stood, before dipping into a shallow bow with fist pressed against palm. Wenjun followed his example. As they took their leave of Wang Ziyi and headed back to the  _ wulin _ grounds, something settled in the pit of Zhengting’s stomach with a sickening certainty. Maybe his mind had put something together that he had yet to realize, or maybe it was plain intuition; regardless of its source, Zhengting now lived in the knowledge that in the coming days,  _ wulin _ would see more blood.    


* * *

**GLOSSARY**

_ Longjing _ \- One of the most famous teas in China, and notoriously expensive, it is a loose-leaf green tea essentially exclusive to the mountains surrounding Hangzhou

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and so the plot thickens *eyes emoji* any guesses as to who the commissioner might be? 
> 
> our socials if you want to chat!   
> **ree:** [twt](https://twitter.com/ramenreee) | [cc](https://curiouscat.me/ramenree)  
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	11. 拾

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _In which Xiao Gui visits an old friend and a new enemy._

“All those horses, and they couldn’t spare  _ one _ for us to share?” Xiao Gui grumbled, adjusting the broad-brimmed straw hat that shaded him from the white sun. The hat was ugly and he hated Yuehua. Fucking Yuehua. 

Zhu Xingjie chuckled, ever patient. He never let any situation frustrate him, and it was this quality of his that Xiao Gui both admired and loathed. 

“They don’t exactly trust us,” he said, the mirth audible in his voice. “I wouldn’t blame them for that.”

Xiao Gui scoffed. “ _ Tch _ . I blame them for whatever I want.” 

“That’s a bit rich, coming from the reason we’re doing this in the first place,” Xingjie retorted, but with no real aggression. Xiao Gui had gotten hell from him immediately after the event, but Xingjie’s anger had since then dissipated. 

The two of them were headed for the underground market in Shuikou, where they had first and perhaps foolishly taken the request for Yuehua  _ tangzhu  _ Zhu Zhengting’s head. Zhou Yanchen, both to participate in the  _ wulin _ festival and as a glorified hostage for Guoran’s cooperation, remained in the capital.

To be frank, Xiao Gui would’ve preferred staying behind to travelling miles on foot to a place he had little will to return if not for the animosity the other Yuehua disciples held for him in particular. If he had stayed, it was likely he’d have been perforated before the week was out. No, it was better that Yanchen was the one who remained behind; if the gods were good he’d also successfully seduce that one Yuehua disciple he spent their last meeting ogling. Not that Xiao Gui thought he had a chance. 

Now, after nearly a fortnight of hard travel the way they had come, Wang Linkai and Zhu Xingjie found themselves back at Shuiko considerably more tired and also more poor. Not only had they lost the fortune they would have gained by assassinating Zhu Zhengting, they’d also squandered some of their funds on food for the journey. The pathetic rations Yuehua provided them only served to lower Xiao Gui’s already unaspiring opinion of sects. 

The black market’s base of operations was only accessible through a seedy inn on the outskirts of town, a nest for those who would do anything for coin. That included them. Xingjie entered the establishment first, taking off his own hat first so that the woman behind the counter could see his face. When she recognized him, she smiled, batting perfect, dark lashes and parting ochre-painted lips.

“Oh, how long it’s been since I last saw the two of you,” she stepped around the counter, moving with a practiced, seductive grace. Xiao Gui resisted the urge to roll his eyes.  _ Some people never change _ . “Where’s Xiao Hua? Hasn’t gotten himself killed, has he?” 

“Hopefully not,” Xingjie replied smoothly. “But it’s hard to say with someone like him. He runs his mouth, you know.” 

The woman laughed. “Oh, very well. But so does this one.” She approached Xiao Gui and flicked the brim of his straw hat teasingly. “How have you been doing, Xiao Gui?” 

“Terribly,” he said, feeling the corners of his mouth tug up in spite of himself. As much as he found her irritating in the time they had spent in each other’s company, there was something endearing about her as well—the familiarity, perhaps. “I wouldn’t be here if I were doing well.” 

“Ignore him, Zhou  _ xiaojie _ ,” Xingjie said, laughing lightly. “We’ve travelled a long way.” 

“And with little to gain, I take it,” she said, tapping a pale, tapered finger on her chin. “Otherwise your first order of business wouldn’t be coming here. It would be meeting with your client, would it not?” 

Xingjie sighed. “Perceptive as always. Now, could you show us to some rooms, Zhou  _ xiaojie _ ?” 

They all knew that  _ rooms _ , in this case, meant the market. Zhou Jieqiong nodded and beckoned for them to follow her to the back of the tavern to a small wooden door.

“Try not to pick any fights, boys,” she said, but Xiao Gui could tell she didn’t care. He’d known her from years back, after all, from the time they were both half-starved drudges looking for scraps on the streets. He didn’t know if their present situation was any better, but at the very least they no longer went hungry. 

Xiao Gui followed Xingjie down the stairs and into a damp stone corridor illuminated dimly with tallow candles flickering in their roughly cut alcoves. The corridor eventually opened to a long dirt hall lit only by light that filtered down from a row of grimy, ground-level windows covered with torn rice paper. 

The market was quieter than usual, perhaps because most of the merchants who normally occupied this space would have relocated to the more robust markets of the capital during  _ wulin _ season. Today, there were only a few sellers scattered throughout the hall—a crone selling stolen jewelry and two foreign-looking men with a table covered in illegal imports.

Xiao Gui and Xingjie headed straight for the requests board, which was a wide wooden panel tacked full of sheets of paper—these were jobs for mercenaries and assassins like themselves. 

Xingjie reached into the folds of his robes and extracted the request paper for their job to reference it. Whoever penned it had a distinct hand, with clean, bold brushstrokes that looked as if they belonged to an official scribe of some sort, not someone who would hire a mercenary to do their dirty work. Xiao Gui scanned the board for any papers with similar writing and found none. 

“What were we expecting, coming here first?” he asked Xingjie irritably. “We should have gone straight for the meeting place.” 

Xingjie didn’t respond. He was looking at the request board intently, as if waiting for it to reveal something they didn’t yet know. 

_ No,  _ Xiao Gui realized. Not the request board. He was staring straight through it, at the shadows lurking behind a cluster of crates by the wall.  _ Oh, fuck _ . 

“Show yourselves,” Xingjie said, his voice tense and hard. He drew Zhanyue in one fluid motion out of the sheath he carried on his back, and Xiao Gui was vaguely aware of the crone’s alarmed shriek and the foreigners’ anxious expletives. “I’m only going to ask once.” 

There was no verbal response. Instead, all Xiao Gui registered was the gleam of steel in the dark and several shapes leaping out at them in unison. Acting on pure instinct, he slid his wrist blades out of his sleeve and caught a sword between them, which may have cleaved his skull open had he reacted a second slower. 

“What the fuck?” he snarled, then dropped to the ground abruptly and disengaged his knives. His masked assailant’s blade cut into the dirt floor, sending up plumes of dust into the air. Xiao Gui ducked away, got to his feet, and kicked at the sensitive area beneath the man’s knees, forcing him to the ground before plunging his knife into the back of his neck in a spurt of red. 

“Alive, Xiao Gui!” Xingjie called, his voice strained. He was taking on two swordsmen at once. It was lucky, then, that Zhanyue was a very long sword. “We want to take them alive!” 

With that, Xingjie sliced at the legs of one of his attackers and caught him in the thigh. The man grunted in pain and fell to his knees. Xiao Gui moved in, forcing the sword out of his hand with a well-placed slash and sticking a knife in his other leg, for good measure. 

Meanwhile, Xingjie was standing over the man he had been fighting, his face a mask of disappointment. The attacker was evidently dead, blood gushing out of a gash in his neck and pooling around his head. 

“What happened to taking them alive?” Xiao Gui asked, raising an eyebrow. 

Xingjie shook his head, for once looking irritated. “He killed himself,” he spat. “He slit his own throat when it was evident he was going to lose. There is information they’re trying to hide.” 

They both looked to the last of the three men, who was cowering in a corner and trying to staunch the blood from the wounds on his legs and hand. Xiao Gui took a couple of steps towards him testingly, but the man seemed more afraid than anything else. “You’re the coward of the bunch, aren’t you?” 

“Kill me,” he said, his voice quivering. “Just kill me.”

“I think not.” Xiao Gui bent over and wiped his blades on the front of the man’s shirt, grinning sharply when he realized he could feel the man’s heart racing beneath his skin. He sheathed his knives. “We’re going to take you to our friends over at Yuehua.” 

“Yuehua?” The man paled visibly. “What could Yuehua have to do with a couple of mercenaries like you?”

“More than we thought, apparently.” Xingjie fixed the man with a cold, curious stare. “Xiao Gui, find some rope.” 

“On it.” He walked around until he reached where the crone had laid her wares out to sell, the large sheet on the floor now abandoned by its owner. The rope that was used to tie her display all together lay by her booth, and Xiao Gui picked it up and returned to Xingjie with it, where he promptly tied the man’s wrists together behind his back tightly. 

“Why did you attack us?” Xingjie asked, once his bonds were secured. “Who hired you?” 

“I don’t know,” the man spluttered. “I really don’t. I’m not the leader of our group. I just follow orders.” 

“Who was the leader?”

He jerked his head towards one of the bodies, the one Xingjie said had killed himself. “He was. He might still have our job request on his person.” 

Xingjie nodded at Xiao Gui, so he padded over to the corpse and turned it over, hissing in disgust when the blood trickled through the cracks in the ground towards him. The smell of death was overwhelming, and despite having left his own trail of bodies behind, he resisted the urge to gag as he searched the dead man’s clothing. 

“I think I found something,” he said, when he felt the crinkle of paper in the folds of his dark robes. Xiao Gui reached into a pocket in the cloth and retrieved a folded piece of parchment. Smoothing it out, he recognized that this request was written in the exact same hand as theirs. “I don’t know what it says, but the same person wrote it.” 

“Tying up loose ends, are they?” Xingjie took the paper from him and scanned it, pursing his lips when he was done. “So the same person who asked us to kill Zhu Zhengting wanted us dead once he realized we had failed.” 

“You guys were supposed to kill Zhu Zhengting?” their prisoner asked incredulously. “The Yuehua  _ tangzhu _ ?”

Xiao Gui nudged the man’s injured leg, forcing a sharp hiss of pain out of him. “Keep your mouth shut,” he suggested derisively. “We ask the questions here.” 

Xingjie folded up the request paper and put it away. “We’ll need to get this guy to Yuehua, somehow.”

Xiao Gui nodded. “They’ll be able to do the rest of the interrogations, and hopefully this will be enough for us to go on our way.” 

Xingjie turned to him with a look in his eyes that was equal parts disbelieving and patronizing. “You can’t seriously think that.” 

He inclined his head, puzzled. “Why not?” 

“We’re in Yuehua’s pocket, ‘Gui.” Xingjie laughed bitterly, and all of a sudden Xiao Gui thought that perhaps Xingjie was angrier at him than he knew. Xingjie didn’t explain further, but the nature of their situation was dawning on him in its full scope and clarity for the first time. 

“Okay,” he said, now slightly uneasy. “How do we take him back? We can’t get him a doctor.”

Xingjie patted down the nearest body and retrieved a small purse jingling with what must have been coin. At the same time, a figure emerged in the entranceway to the marketplace—one of the foreigners from earlier. Xingjie’s hand tightened around Zhanyue’s hilt until an exasperated voice rang out through the chamber. 

“What was hard to understand about ‘try not to pick any fights’?” Zhou Jieqiong stepped onto the scene, pushing the foreigner aside and tapping her hand cannon against her palm. She seemed very displeased.

“Maybe if you didn’t let these bastards in,” Xiao Gui shot back, his arms folded defensively.

“I’m guessing they came in through there,” Xingjie said lightly, gesturing to one of the windows near the ceiling, which did not have its covering of paper. “Sorry for the mess, Zhou  _ xiaojie _ .” 

He grabbed their prisoner by the collar, dragging him towards the exit while ignoring his yelps of pain. Xiao Gui followed closely behind. 

“Here.” Xingjie handed Jieqiong the money pouch, the coins jingling as they changed hands. “Help us find a horse and wagon and I promise we won’t trouble you again.” 

“Right,” she said sardonically. “I believe that.” 

* * *

**GLOSSARY**

Xiao Hua - an endearing nickname meaning ‘little flower,’ and it is often used by Zhou Yanchen’s chinese fanbase

_ Xiaojie _ \- can be loosely translated to “miss”; it is a respectful term for young women (although it was not in wide use until later in China’s history, we think it’s obvious that we’re not really big on sticking with a historical time period, anyway)

Zhanyue (斩月) - Xingjie’s sword; it’s name can be loosely translated as “to cut the moon.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> xiao gui and xingjie are really an underrated duo. xinggui nation rise.
> 
> our socials if you want to chat!  
>  **ree:** [twt](https://twitter.com/ramenreee) | [cc](https://curiouscat.me/ramenree)  
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	12. 拾壹

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _In which Chen Linong gets sentimental._

Xukun was already flopping onto the bed when Linong brought their bags up into the room.

“Careful,” he chided, setting them down on the small table at the other end of the room. “Don’t hurt yourself again.”

Xukun opened one eye to shoot him a lazy glance. “It’s been three weeks. I’m well healed aready.”

“We shouldn’t take the risk.” He shook his head. Xukun never knew when was appropriate to hold back and when it was not. 

“I’m resting now,” Xukun retorted easily. He buried his hands in the blankets and propped himself back up to a sitting position. Linong watched him as he did so, wanting to frown at how smug he looked suddenly, but then only feeling fondness.

He shook his head again in disbelief, then took a moment to look around the room. It was modestly furnished, consisting of the soft bed in the centre that Xukun was lounging on, the small side table on which he had set the last of their bags, and a pair of carved wooden stools. On the wall above the bed hung an old tapestry with a watercolour painting of a crane in a pond. 

“I’m going to the market now,” he said to Xukun. “Do you want to come?”

Xukun didn’t make any gesture except to shuffle his blankets more securely over his legs. Linong took the moment to slide his travelling cloak over his shoulders more comfortably, readjusting his sword at his side at the same time. 

Usually, Xukun, knowing the significance of Linong’s nightly rituals, would accompany him. However, he must have been more tired than usual, because all he did was wave his hand.

“No, I’m too tired today. You go alone.” As if to make a point, he rummaged through the front of his robes and extracted his pouch of sap powder and a striker. In a few practiced motions he lit a candle and placed it by the bed. 

Linong paused. After the incident at the inn back in the capital three weeks ago, he wasn’t keen on separating from Xukun, especially since he was still nursing his wound. He considered for a moment just staying behind—he could persuade Xukun to stay another night in the town, then take him along tomorrow when he went—but the yearning to see the glowing lights and odd vendors of the night market was too great. It whispered to him of the life he had lost.

He decided that Xukun was healed well enough for the moment for him to venture out for an hour or so. He had ridden his horse without any complaints today, and had even shown Linong how accurately he could throw when they rode along a rocky stream (he hit the tree they marked as the target more than Linong did, but Linong could throw farther). And now, he was curled up on himself, bending over to blow air into the candle he had lit. He would be fine.

“I’m leaving now, then,” he said. He could already smell the scent of burning lanterns and fried sugar. 

Xukun didn’t even look at him when he waved. “Don’t stay out too long.”

The door slid shut rather loudly.

* * *

The night market did not disappoint him.

The March air was cool, but saturated with a mixture of contrasting scents. There were the standard smells of burning incense and lanterns, frying oil, and grilled meat, but there were the heavy sugary smells of  _ tang hulu _ , sweet red bean buns, and sesame fritters too. The air was alive with voices and noises of all kinds—the sharp shouting of children, the laughs of two vendors gossiping with one another, the barking of a stray dog at a hissing cat. 

Linong took this in from where he stood at the edge of the market, letting his eyes adjust to the multicoloured lights and assortment of wares. Already, a boy was waving his arms at him, a necklace with a green stone bound to it clasped in his hand, in an effort to entice him with his family’s goods. Linong smiled at him before shaking his head politely and continuing into the midst of the market. 

He felt his mouth curve upwards further, delighted with every small detail that he passed by. The chirping of crickets in their cages, the brightly coloured paper cut-outs plastered over storefronts, and the greasy, dusty signs of the shops themselves: they reminded him of another market, years earlier. 

Linong was born in a town like this one, seventeen years ago, to parents who ran a noodle shop. In his scattered memories of his very early childhood, he could still see the surfaces of a quaint house sprinkled with oil and flour, the merry atmosphere of the market where his family did their business, and most of all, the tinkling laughter of his mother and father mixed in with the other cacophony of noises from the street. He remembers the simpleness of his fellow townspeople, the quiet way they had lived their lives farming and trading, the colourful festivals he always ran to even when his mother scolded him for running away for. 

If he closed his eyes, it was almost as if he was back in the place where he was born, knowing nothing but music and laughter and happiness.

He paced through the streets, smiling at the vendors, stopping for a moment at a stand to watch an old man draw a rooster with melted sugar. The way his hands moved over the surface, one holding the wooden stick down, the other drizzling steaming brown sticky sugar into the shape of a bird, was mesmerizing. When it was done, the man looked up and grinned a toothless smile at Linong. Linong smiled back, hands already travelling to his coin pouch.

“I’ll take the rooster you just made,” he said, sliding two coins across the stand. The man wiped his hands on his apron and picked up a thin bamboo skewer. He pressed it to the rooster to give it a handle and passed it to Linong.  _ Perhaps Xukun would like to see this. _

He slipped the rooster into his pocket as he turned, almost tripping over a big brown dog in the process. The animal sat up and barked dismally at him. Linong bent and stroked the curve of his bitten ear, and the dog only bared his teeth at him once before relenting and allowing himself to be petted.

“He’s an old dog,” the old man at the stand said amicably, melting another vat of sugar over the flames. He pulled the stool he was sitting more comfortably under him and gestured to his dog. “He’s been with me for many, many years now. Couldn’t ask for a better companion.”

Linong nodded, reaching down to cup his hand around the dog’s muzzle. However, the dog darted under his arm and raced for his master, running in a circle around him before settling at his feet. He watched as the old man pet him on the head, smiling gently at his friend, before a sudden ache filled his chest, forcing him to turn away and continue walking down the street.

It was quieter now, in the few minutes he had spent at the vendor’s stand. The streets were emptier, the children running back to their anxiously waiting parents. Even the animals were padding back to their masters, the strays settling with each other at street corners. Linong watched them all and felt his chest ache.

Ever since Xukun found him crouching in the dust and splinters of his village six years earlier, hands and heart bleeding, he’d rarely allow himself to dwell on the feelings he had when he passed by a town as lively as this one. It was difficult at first, Xukun sometimes turning around in each market to see a thirteen year old Linong, shaking, with eyes wide and glassy as he saw the remnants of his old life scattered all around him again. But as with all things, it settled in, mellowing out until it was no more than a dull ache in his chest whenever he thought too deeply on it. 

He didn’t like talking about it, even to Xukun, who had saved his life when he was no more than a boy himself. Linong had no doubts that the man knew, however (half a decade of travelling  _ jianghu _ together was bound to unearth both their demons), but neither of them were the kind to dwell on their pasts if they could avoid it. 

It was the hollow ache he felt in his chest whenever he saw the dogs run back to their owners or children dash back into their mothers’ arms. Even the stray cats and dogs settled with each other on corners, always in the same packs, all content and squeaking amongst each other in harmony. He hoped sometimes that he would have something like that as well. A place to call home.

Xukun was the opposite. He was free like a bird, and he intended to stay that way. He wasn’t imposing, however, having offered to leave or take Linong places he thought he would feel safe at. But something always happened that caused both of them to give the thought up. Even now, when the ache in his chest was sharper than he’d ever remembered it being, he couldn’t bear the thought of leaving Xukun behind. Xukun was all he had, and he owed him too much for him to leave. Besides, he didn’t want to.

Perhaps it was seeing the Yuehua swordsmen that brought these feelings on, he thought. They had seemed close, even the ones who glared at and argued with one another—the pale, sullen one who had opened the door for them and the sharp-tongued boy who had brought the assassin up to see them. Zhu Zhengting seemed to care deeply for each of them, chiding them like a parent would. They seemed like a family and, if Linong scoured up his memories, not unlike his own. 

He looked up, seeing the outline of the moon behind some clouds, and realized that he should probably head back before Xukun became worried. He had strayed farther than he’d intended, past the main street and now walking along some darkened, narrower alleys. There weren’t many shops here, the ones that had signs above them already closed for the night.

Linong stopped in his tracks and looked up at the moon again. It really was bright tonight, shining over the alleyways and making the edges of the forest he saw ahead glow silver. The sounds had faded away too, the voices dimmed by the curtain of the night. Linong straightened, not moving, and listened hard. 

Luckily, he did so, or else he wouldn't have heard the gentle thud of feet hitting the ground.

He twisted away just in time as a sword came slicing at him, though not quick enough to avoid it from cutting at his side. The blade cut through his robes, slicing shallowly into his side, but the pain was bearable and he grit his teeth as he slid Xinghong out of its sheath. 

The man who had attacked him had cloth covering up most of his face, but his upper face at least was uncovered and it showed a pair of furrowed, yellowish eyes. Linong bent out of the way as he sliced at him again, hearing another crack above him. He looked up, and saw five more silhouettes lining the rooftops.  _ Shit _ .

When the man swung his blade forward again, Linong was prepared. He dodged it, his assailant losing balance as his sword hit nothing but air, and took the opportunity to raise his sword above the man’s back, aiming to cut into it in his next swing.

However, one of the men from the rooftops took the opportunity to leap down, his own sword at the ready. Linong was forced to twist out of the way and raise his blade to receive the awaiting blow instead, the clang of metal against metal vibrating in the air. 

This man had his face uncovered, and he leered at Linong for the fraction of the second they were locked together. Perhaps not though, when Linong pressed forward, and his expression shifted to one of surprise when he registered Linong’s strength. They usually did; no one expected him to be as strong as he was. 

Linong kicked him solidly in the stomach and the man stumbled back, crashing into an empty cart lined up against the wall. He didn’t get to see what happened next, however, already engaged with the first man who had attacked him. 

The man cut at him, angrier now, but Linong countered it solidly, aware that some of the other men from the roofs were jumping down to aid their ally. He brought his sword up, throwing the other man’s blade off him, and cut heavily at his side, feeling Xinghong slice deep into flesh.

The man screeched but it didn’t prevent Linong from stabbing him in his abdomen. Drops of blood streaked across his face, but he didn’t have the time or mind to care.

Two other men were attacking him now—he didn’t have time to make them out before he was defending and swiping at both—and he suddenly could feel the direness of the situation. He finished one off with a cut at the chest and managed to wound the other one in the leg, but there were still at least three more waiting for him, and the shallow cut in his side, though he couldn’t feel it in the rush of the moment, was seeping out blood steadily. 

He felt the stab before he could register where it was coming from. He was still fighting the one he had injured the leg of, one eye watching the man who he had kicked into the cart earlier, who was circling them carefully, his sword outstretched, when he felt a chill on his left side. He grappled with Xinghong, twisting it out of his opponent’s sword to defend himself, but didn’t have enough time to defend against the cold blade burying itself in his side. 

At first, all he felt was a distinct  _ wrongness. _ The pain didn’t set in until after the assailant pulled his steel out; then, it was hot, burning, and excruciating. Linong felt warm blood soak his robes almost immediately.  _ Fuck. _

Almost blinded by the burn, Linong swung his sword and felt the clang as it hit the blade out of his attackers hands. The man in question dropped it and jumped stupidly around for a second, but Linong surged forward and returned the stab so quick he couldn’t even register he was coming. Xinghong sank into the man’s chest, and Linong drew it out fast such that the blood splattered out high and drenched his own arm.  _ Just three more _ .

It was proving harder than he’d hoped, finishing the men off. Now with two injuries, Linong felt himself grow sloppier, his entire body throbbing each time he turned. He continued to duel the man with the injured leg, landing a shallow cut across his other leg, and when the man yelled and sank down to his knees, took a moment to press his hand against the stab wound. The blood pulsed over his fingers in seconds.

It was bad, Linong knew. No matter how much more skilled he may be individually against them, he couldn’t fight three—technically two, now with the other one wailing about the pain in the cuts in his legs—with two deep cuts losing blood steadily. He winced as the burn was amplified, the pain making him see white.

He became aware of another man leaping forward with his knife, but Linong barely had enough mind to raise Xinghong to defend himself. The resulting clang of blades sent a tremor through his body that hurt so bad, he had to slide his own sword out under his opponent’s weapon in an effort to stabilize himself. Another sloppy, shallow cut across his non-sword arm, and Linong grit his teeth.  _ This might be it. _

_ Xukun is going to kill me _ , he thought, as the man raised his blade above him once more. He raised Xinghong, the metal shining red under the moonlight, though he doubted he could defend himself well with his vision pulsing around him with each spurt of blood escaping his stab wound. 

Then suddenly, he gaped. The man above him fell to the side, coughing out a spurt of red. Linong saw a figure moving quickly, finishing off the man he had injured the legs of then dueling with the last one, who had stayed behind and who apparently only saw to come down when everyone else was dead. The man was tall, with dark hair and deep blue robes. The sword he grasped in his hand was a long blade that glowed bluish-silver under the moonlight, and when he turned, Linong caught sight of a handsome, angular face tight with concentration. 

Linong felt another pair of hands on him, more frantic, but he couldn’t find it in himself to turn to see who it was. He let himself be handled, Xinghong slipping unwillingly out of his grasp as the blood pulsed out of his stab wound around the fingers of his other hand. His vision pulsed too, the edges of his sight stained with black.

The last thing he saw was another face bent over his own—not Xukun’s—with eyes wide and lips moving though he couldn’t seem to hear what exactly he was saying. Then, darkness. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello again everyone <3 did you *vibes* enjoy *vibes more* the cliffhanger? 
> 
> our socials if you want to chat!   
> **ree:** [twt](https://twitter.com/ramenreee) | [cc](https://curiouscat.me/ramenree)  
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	13. 拾贰

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _In which Cai Xukun loses one companion but gains another._

He must have dozed off at some point in time, because when he opened his eyes again the tallow candle at his bedside had burned to a stub. Cai Xukun sat up abruptly, scanning the dim room for any sign of Chen Linong and finding no one. 

Swinging his legs over the side of the bed and into woven sandals, he walked briskly over to the small balcony adjoined to their quarters and peered down below. The night market had long since concluded; only remnants of scents and scatterings of paper, monochromatic in the pale moonlight, remained of it. So, where was Linong? 

Xukun glanced at the candle again. To burn it to nothing would mean that at least four bells had passed since Linong left—that would mean that it was now an hour past midnight and, by all accounts, unreasonable that Linong had yet to return. 

Normally, he went with Linong to the markets, but in the times Linong did go alone, he was never late in coming back. He didn’t drink, didn’t gamble, and had never set foot in any red light district (as far as Xukun knew). And most minor inconveniences could never hold a swordsman as skilled as him. The only explanation, then, was that he had run into serious trouble. 

Xukun crossed back over to the bed and picked up Xiao Hongchen from where it rested on the floor. He had fallen asleep fully clothed, so there was no need to dress. Striding back out onto the balcony, he inhaled deeply once before vaulting over the side and down into the alleyway below. 

He hit the ground running. This was a big town, and if he wanted to find Linong before the worst he’d better be  _ fast _ . 

The first alley turned up empty. The second had only a drunk. The third yielded a couple of strays sniffing around a beggar covering himself with a tattered length of burlap. By the sixth, there was a rising wave of worry building up inside Xukun that pushed his heart rate up and washed over the tranquility he was so accustomed to, the tranquility that came with knowing not much in the world could hurt you. He knew then that it took the knowledge that  _ someone else _ could be hurt to puncture it. 

_ Chen Linong, where are you? _

The last time he had been completely unaware of Linong’s whereabouts would have been around four years ago, shortly after they first met and Xukun first picked him up out of the ashes of a life burned to the ground. He had accidentally lost the kid in a crowd the first time they travelled through a busy town. But that was in broad daylight and Chen Linong was just another dusty child in the throng, not the companion of the First Sword.

More than once in the past, Xukun had tried to drop him off somewhere safe and continue on with his travels alone but somehow it just never happened. He always told himself  _ maybe tomorrow _ or  _ this isn’t the best place _ and eventually the notion slipped his mind more often than it surfaced. Then, after a couple of months in Xukun’s company, Linong asked him to teach him the sword and he stopped thinking about leaving Linong behind entirely. 

It was funny how desperate Xukun felt now, four years later. 

He stopped, leaning against the stone wall of a closed noodle shop to catch his breath. His eyes swept over the signs on the storefront and a pang of worry hit him again, the reminder spurring him back into action. 

By the time Xukun finally found the bodies, there was a faint glow on the horizon that heralded dawn. He counted one, two, three, four, five,  _ six _ men lying on the packed ground but none of them Linong’s lanky form nor any of the swords Xinghong’s distinctive blade. He wasn’t sure if he was supposed to be relieved. 

He bent over the nearest black-clothed corpse and turned it over onto its back. There was a long, deep gash in his abdomen, thick with congealed blood. The man lying face up next to him had a mangled chest, and a short distance away a third body sported a chest wound similar to the first’s. 

Could Linong have killed these men? It wasn’t impossible, Xukun thought. There were very few wounds on any of them aside from the wound that led to their deaths. Linong had always been efficient.

_ But if Linong killed them… where is he? _

Xukun straightened and walked around the corpses carefully. They were all dressed identically, in the same sparse, unadorned black robes. A few wore face coverings—the same as the men who had approached him at the capital three weeks ago. The men who had tried to kill him when he rejected their offer of a new  _ wulin _ order. 

He dropped to his knees by the nearest body and began rummaging through its robes. It didn’t take long to find what he was looking for. He extracted the little wooden tablet and held it up to the brightening sky to see the circular red pattern carved into its surface. 

It was his fault, Xukun knew now with a sickening sort of certainty. At first he thought he was to blame for letting Linong go alone, knowing how dangerous it could be, but now he knew that it was more than that. He was to blame for the target on their backs, and for being so fucking foolish and failing to consider the possibility of being approached a second time, this time without the mercy of talk. 

He was gripping the  _ lingpai _ in his hand so tightly that his entire arm was trembling. The edges of the wood dug into his palm but he just stood there with it in his grasp, the same word tolling through his head over and over again.  _ Fool, fool, fool. _

Somewhere in the distance, a rooster crowed. A nearby door opened with a long, drawn-out creak and an elderly man stepped out onto the street. Xukun watched him passively, wondering if he would gasp when he turned around and saw him standing alone in the carnage.

He didn’t. Instead, he approached Xukun slowly and apprehensively, and it was then that it dawned on Xukun that he  _ knew _ something. 

“Sir, do you know what happened here?” Xukun ventured as the old man came up as close to the ring of corpses as he dared. “Do you know who killed these men?” 

“As a matter of fact, I do,” he responded, in a unsteady voice. “Last night, I heard a struggle outside and I came to the window to look. The ones here on the ground were killed by a fellow I couldn’t see the face of. He was facing away from me.” 

“Do you remember what he was wearing?” Xukun asked, urgency creeping into his voice. “How tall was he? How did he wear his hair?” 

The old man furrowed his brow. “It was hard to tell what colour his robes would be in the dark, but I do remember his hair—he only wore one queue. As for his height… I would venture that he was around your height, yes. Perhaps slightly taller.” 

The description matched Linong perfectly and Xukun could feel his heartbeat pick up into his throat. “Did you see where he went afterwards, by any chance?” 

The man swallowed once, then nodded. “He was cut in the side, if my old eyes saw correctly, and then I looked away because I was sure he was going to be killed. But then I heard the sound of swords again and looked outside once more, only to see him being dragged away. By whom, I couldn’t tell.” 

Xukun organized the story in his head and looked around at the bodies at his feet again. The pieces seemed to fall together and he could see it, see Linong in the dark, surrounded by swords and malice and bearing the consequences of  _ Xukun’s  _ decisions. 

“Did you know him,  _ daxia _ ?” the old man asked. 

Xukun exhaled. “If we’re thinking of the same person, then yes.” 

The old man shook his head sadly. “What a tragedy! The town will be in unrest once this is reported to the authorities.” 

But Xukun wasn’t paying attention to him anymore. He quickly searched each of the bodies, turning up another  _ lingpai _ , an abundance of weapons, and several small pouches of coin. They carried no other form of identification but Xukun noticed that the daggers on their bodies were all of the same material—it might provide some insight into who equipped them. He took one  _ lingpai _ and one dagger and all their money. Not that he needed it, in particular, but it wouldn’t hurt. 

“What are you doing?” The old man gaped at him.

Xukun slipped the dagger and  _ lingpai _ into his pockets. “The others must be found, sir.” 

“Should you not wait for the authorities,  _ daxia _ ?” the man asked incredulously. 

His temptation to flaunt was rare, but in the moment he wanted nothing more than to tell him that  _ the First Sword waits for no one.  _

After all, whoever had Chen Linong clearly didn’t do him the favour of waiting, either.

* * *

_ Linong was wandering through the night market. He reached a relatively quiet street. He was attacked by at least seven armed men. He killed six, but was injured. The remaining took him somewhere else, where he could be held, he could be dead, he- _

Xukun preferred  _ held _ and refused to consider any other possibility. After examining the faint trail of blood he’d spotted on the cobbles, he decided that Linong was still alive. It was not enough blood for him to have bled out, so either his assailants attempted to keep his blood off the road or he wasn’t badly injured enough, only incapacitated. Coupled with the clear disregard for the piles of evidence—the bodies—Xukun came to the conclusion that it was the latter. They wanted to keep him alive. Why, Xukun had no idea, but  _ by the gods _ did he take solace in it. 

He was back in their room at the inn. The dawn had painted the sky shades of pink, orange, yellow, red. 

If he were the people who had attacked Linong, he would not linger long in this town, he thought. They must have known that Linong was travelling with Xukun, and that Xukun would surely notice his absence. Linong had made no name for himself, and no reason to be targeted except for their connection. Guilt clawed at his chest like cold hands. 

Linong was the closest thing he had to family. Before he met him, Xukun had all but sworn off attachment, only to realize that it was much harder in practice. Sometimes, he still wondered if it would have been for the better if he’d had just a little bit more steel and left Linong behind in some town and went on his way.  _ Perhaps _ . Perhaps, because Linong would be safe, having nothing to do with the foolish First Sword of  _ jianghu _ and the enemies he had no idea he made. 

Cai Xukun gathered up both their belongings into one bundle and swung it over his shoulder, taking up Xiao Hongchen in his other hand. He paid the innkeeper extra with the money he’d taken off the dead men and ignored the question when the man asked where his companion was. 

“Where can I get a horse?” he asked the innkeeper. “A good one?” 

“There’re stables just down this road,  _ daxia _ ,” the man responded, gesturing. “They’ve got the best horses in town.” 

Xukun nodded curtly and followed his instructions. In the stables, a gruff man and a young boy were refilling the horses’ feed when he arrived. 

“ _ Laoban _ ,” he got their attention, “how much for a horse? Your fastest horse?” 

The man dusted off his hands. “Twenty silvers. It’s one price, take it or leave it.” 

Xukun wanted to scoff at his attitude but he pulled out a full pouch of silver and tossed it at the man who caught them, surprised. “I’ll take it. Which one is it?” 

“This one,  _ daxia _ .” All of a sudden, he was all smiles. “We call him Juechen. He’s the best. Obedient, too.” 

_ Juechen _ , Xukun thought.  _ How pretentious _ . But nonetheless he took the reins handed to him by the man once the horse had been saddled. Juechen was a jet-black stallion and, as the man had promised, obedient, following his lead out of the stable without resistance. Xukun looked into the horse’s eyes and wondered if it would live up to expectations. 

Once he was back out onto the streets, he put a foot into the stirrups and swung onto Juechen’s back, almost accidentally sliding off the other side in his haste. It had been years since he’d last mounted a horse, but he was glad that he still had some grasp over how to ride surviving in his muscles. He flicked the reins once, and they were off. 

Outside the town, he dug his heels into the sides of the horse to spur him on, maybe a little bit too hard, but Juechen was also blessedly patient with him. And he  _ was _ fast, almost too fast for Xukun’s neglected skills as horse and rider galloped over uneven country roads quickly enough that Xukun could feel the wind thread through his hair and snap at his robes. 

“You  _ are _ a good horse, aren’t you?” He leaned forward and said, as if Juechen could understand. He felt slightly ridiculous doing so. “It’s a pity you have such a ridiculous name.” 

Juechen whinnied, to Xukun’s surprise. “Oh, my apologies,” he said wryly. “You like it, do you?” 

This time around, the horse didn’t respond. Xukun somehow found it in himself to smile, despite what was at stake. 

“Let me call you Chen,” he told his horse. He felt something twist inside at the notion and what it reminded him of, but somehow it made his mission feel more… official. “ _ Jia! _ ”

As they travelled away from the town, the dirt roads became increasingly overrun by weeds and grasses, and also began taking a turn for the east. Xukun squinted against the half-risen sun and hoped against hope that Yuehua would have answers. 

* * *

**GLOSSARY**

_ Laoban _ \- a general term used to address a business owner 

Juechen (绝尘) - Xukun’s horse; its name is derived from the term 一骑绝尘, which was used in reference to horses so fast that as it rides past, all that is seen to onlookers is the dust it kicks up in its wake 

_ Jia _ \- a colloquialism that is often used when spurring on a horse 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry this chapter was shorter and later than usual! this week's chapter will be on time ^^
> 
> our socials if you want to chat!  
>  **ree:** [twt](https://twitter.com/ramenreee) | [cc](https://curiouscat.me/ramenree)  
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	14. 拾叁

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _In which You Zhangjing steps into the world of swordsmen._

"How much longer?" You Zhangjing stepped over a dead squirrel, barely visible in the darkness, gingerly. The poor visibility coupled with the fact that he was carrying all their belongings made it difficult to navigate the uneven ground, but he was more concerned for Lin Yanjun than for himself. In the moonlight filtering down from the canopy of leaves overhead, a sheen of sweat was visible on his face as he forged through the forest, carrying an unconscious man taller than himself on his back. 

"Soon, I promise," Yanjun said, the tension plain in his voice. Zhangjing saw his arms shift slightly, trembling with the weight of their passenger. "Oh, it's just up ahead." 

The trees began thinning into a small clearing and Zhangjing squinted through the dark to see a small house—a shack, really—in the middle of the glade. 

"Are you sure this is safe?" Zhangjing asked skeptically. When Yanjun had said he knew of a safe place for them to go, he had not been expecting this run-down, secluded thing on the verge of falling to pieces. 

"It'll be safer than staying in town," Yanjun replied, through gritted teeth. Zhangjing suppressed the urge to argue and followed Yanjun into the house. 

The interior was nicer, at the very least—while the wood seemed quite worn on the outside, the inside was relatively well-kept, although there was a fine layer of dust over everything. In the ways of furniture the house was fairly sparse, with only a small table in the centre of the room, a bed frame in the corner, and some cooking pots resting by a stove stacked with dry logs. 

"Set up a bedroll," Yanjun instructed. Zhangjing had a million questions but he bit them back and did as told, quickly spreading out his own bedroll on the bed frame so that Yanjun could set the young man on his back down. When he finally did, he sighed in relief and sat down heavily on the wooden floor, the boards creaking beneath the sudden weight. 

"What is this place, exactly?" Zhangjing asked him. "How did you know about it?" 

Yanjun let out a breath. When he spoke, his voice still betrayed the strain he had endured in the past quarter bell. "I've been travelling a long time, you know." He looked at Zhangjing. "I didn't always have coin to spend. My old sect-mates and I cleaned this place up when we found it, years back. To use as a rest stop of sorts, I suppose.” 

“It’s in remarkably good condition inside.” 

Yanjun shrugged. “I suppose no one found this place after us. And maybe the others have used it since and kept it tidy. Regardless, we stay out of sight here.” 

Zhangjing walked over and offered Yanjun a hand. He took it and got to his feet, wincing slightly. 

“What’s wrong?” Zhangjing asked, alarmed. “Were you hurt?” 

“No.” Yanjun still wore a grimace. “But _his_ blood’s soaked through my clothes.” 

In the dim light, it was difficult to tell, but when Yanjun turned around Zhangjing could see a wet, dark patch on the back of Yanjun’s robes. 

“We had better patch him up quickly, then,” said Zhangjing. He set their packs down and rummaged through them for a handful of candles and a pouch full of sap powder. A couple of strikes later he had several light sources and set one down next to a small wooden block that served as a night table next to the bed.

In the flickering candlelight, the boy’s face was pared down to almost ghostly planes, and it didn’t reassure Zhangjing that his breath came in short, wet gasps. Zhangjing raised his other candle over the boy’s body and saw the wound, a deep, bloody gash in his side. It was hard to tear his eyes away from it as he was taken by a morbid sort of fascination with the sight of the raw wound.

“He’s one lucky bastard,” Yanjun said, scrutinizing the injury. “The cut missed the major blood vessels in the area. Otherwise, he would have bled out by now.” 

Yanjun leaned over and began undoing the young man’s sash as Zhangjing went back to their baggage to search for their first aid kit. Since he started travelling with Lin Yanjun two years ago, he’d started to keep one on him, in case something ever happened, but until tonight he’d been lucky enough to never really need it for anything serious. 

He returned with bandages and a spool of silk thread and a needle. When Yanjun saw it, he wrinkled his nose. 

“I haven’t done stitches on anyone in a long, long time,” Yanjun said, but he took the thread anyway as Zhangjing knelt down by the bed and cleaned the wound as best as he could with a damp cloth. Aside from the cut, the skin of the boy’s abdomen was unmarred; instead, it was a flat, pale plane of lean muscle. He had the physique of a swordsman by trade, which would explain how he was able to hold off six attackers alone before he and Yanjun—or, more precisely, just Yanjun—arrived in time to step in.

No, it wouldn’t explain it. _Six_ attackers, all of them armed—this was a feat worthy of the First Sword, not any ordinary swordsman. Or, rather, the _former_ First Sword. Everything Zhangjing knew about swords came from the current First Sword, and he wasn’t so sure Lin Yanjun was on the same level as Cai Xukun. 

Two weeks ago, at the _wulin_ festival, Lin Yanjun, a nobody turned veritable dark horse, had cut a swath through his competition and eventually defeated Wang Yibo of Yuehua to be crowned the new First Sword. The betters had been so outraged at the results that he and Zhangjing fled the capital the morning afterwards, staying only briefly to see Han Geng declared _mengzhu_ for a third tenure. 

“The First Sword can’t take on a few angry gamblers?” At the time, Zhangjing had been somewhat disappointed that they couldn’t remain in the capital for longer—after all, he had been looking forward to performing in the taverns and markets throughout the city. But Yanjun had insisted. 

“What do you want me to do? Like you said, they’re just gamblers. Cut them?” Zhangjing had no good way of answering that so they had gone on their way. 

Two weeks later, it felt almost as if the _wulin_ festival had never happened and they were the same travelling pair, stopping for a night or two at every town they passed so Zhangjing could sing and play his lute for anyone who cared to listen. But every so often, someone who had attended the _wulin_ festival would approach Yanjun and ask if he was _the_ First Sword. If the guy looked particularly aggressive Yanjun would say no. If they seemed friendly he’d admit so with a slightly abashed smile that tinted his dimples pink. Zhangjing always wondered if it was deliberate and for effect; it was hard to tell with someone like Yanjun, but he didn’t know how to ask. 

Regardless, their trip had mostly been smooth sailing up until tonight. Zhangjing had just finished performing at a tavern in town and was walking back with Yanjun to the inn that had offered them free accomodations when they heard the altercation, steel on steel echoing through the streets. 

After a moment’s deliberation, Yanjun had unsheathed Guhan and headed towards the direction of the conflict. And that was how they found themselves in their present situation, Yanjun looming uncertainly over an open wound and Zhangjing looking on anxiously. 

The needle pierced his skin. Even unconscious, the boy flinched slightly, his breath catching. An incomprehensible string of words tumbled from his lips but then Zhangjing caught one word— _Xukun._

He made eye contact with Yanjun and then looked back to the boy. 

“You don’t think…” 

“...he’s the one travelling with Cai Xukun?” Yanjun finished his sentence for him. Zhangjing nodded. “Well, it would certainly explain why he fights so well.” He resumed with the stitches, the pensive expression on his face made almost forlorn by the candlelight. “In the morning, I’ll go back to town and see if anyone’s seen Cai Xukun around. If I’m lucky, he might be looking, too.” 

Zhangjing nodded again, watching Yanjun’s tapered fingers thread the needle back and forth over either side of the gash. A thought suddenly occurred to him, as it tended to once every few days since their own encounter with a group of black-clothed, masked men. Zhangjing waited until Yanjun finished the sutures and tied off the string before getting his attention. 

“Lin Yanjun,” he said. “Remember the two men who approached us at the night market? The ones telling us about a ‘new world order’?” 

“Yes,” replied Yanjun, scoffing lightly. “How could I forget? Crazy bastards.” 

“I’m starting to think that they were onto something.” 

Yanjun froze, meeting his eyes almost suspiciously, as if afraid of what he might say. “Like what?” 

Zhangjing looked away, back to the boy lying before them with a gash in his side. “Maybe things do need to change.” 

If Yanjun grasped his meaning, he made no indication of it. Instead, he simply said, “Pass me the bandages.” 

Zhangjing did as told, but didn’t back down. “Do you understand what I’m saying, Lin Yanjun?” 

“We’re just two people walking around minding our own business, Zhangjing.” _So he_ does _know what I mean._ Yanjun wouldn’t meet his gaze anymore, focusing instead on applying ointment and bandaging their patient. “It’s not our place.”

“If not ours then whose?” Zhangjing argued. Cai Xukun had a reputation for helping the smallfolk, when he was the First Sword. Why should they be any different now that the title fell to Yanjun? “How can we watch these things happen and do nothing?”

Although he still wasn’t looking at him, Zhangjing could see a hint of intensity in Yanjun’s eyes that was almost alarming. “I might be the First Sword now, but don’t you forget that it’s only thanks to the mercy of those who are stronger than me,” he said quietly. “And you, You Zhangjing—you can play a lute. What else?” 

Zhangjing got to his feet. “Lin Yanjun, you—”

“Listen to me.” 

Yanjun tied off the bandages and straightened, stepping so close to Zhangjing that he needed to crane his neck to look him straight in the face. And at this distance, even in the dim candlelight, Zhangjing could see every detail clearly, from his long, dark lashes to the tiny mark on the tip of his nose. 

“I can only protect you.” Yanjun was almost whispering now. “That’s it. I don’t have the power to protect other people, too. You’re asking too much of me.” 

Zhangjing was at a loss for words. His heart was beating much more quickly than was within reason and something kept him frozen in place. “I…” 

“You’re a good person, Zhangjing.”

The spell broke. Zhangjing found his voice again. “So are you.” 

No, the spell wasn’t completely broken. Yanjun was moving away, but Zhangjing couldn’t move to make him stay. “I’m selfish.”

“Yeah.” All of a sudden, Zhangjing felt miserable. “Maybe.” 

* * *

You Zhangjing woke up to the chirping of birds and rays of sunlight falling over his face. Someone had braced open the little window directly above his head slightly with a small stick. That someone was Lin Yanjun, who was presently slumped against the wall with Guhan propped up vertically by his side, looking very uncomfortably asleep. Zhangjing felt a twinge of guilt again—after giving up one of their two bedrolls to the stranger they had rescued the night previous, Yanjun had insisted he take their remaining one. He had been too tired to argue and, he admitted privately, too irritated with Yanjun’s attitude towards the topic he had initiated. 

Now, he was eager to make amends, but if he knew Yanjun as well as he thought he did, then then he would also know that Yanjun didn’t dwell on these things for very long. Perhaps, then, it was better to let the matter drop for good. 

Zhangjing sat up and flung the thin sheet covering him aside. He had slept fully clothed because the night had been slightly chilly. Although he understood Yanjun’s motives for relocating them, this was a far cry from the comfort of inns. 

“Zhangjing?” Yanjun’s voice was husky from sleep. It was disorienting how much Zhangjing liked how it sounded. “Did you sleep well?” 

Zhangjing stood and padded over the dusty floor on bare feet to where Yanjun was slowly stirring, stretching out his limbs. “I should be asking you that question.” 

“I think you already know the answer to that.” He laughed softly and got to his feet with a series of disquieting cracks. “Next time, we’re sharing a bedroll no matter how lacking in propriety it is.” 

Zhangjing slapped his arm lightly but he found himself smiling. “It doesn’t lack in propriety if it’s out of necessity.”

Yanjun picked up Guhan. Zhangjing always marvelled at how he—and other swordsmen, for that matter—wielded swords as if they were simply extensions of their limbs, when they were so heavy that simply carrying their guest’s sword through the forest was fatiguing to him. 

“I’m going back to the town,” he announced. “I’ll look for Cai Xukun and bring some breakfast on my way back.” 

Zhangjing nodded. “Get some _baozi_ , will you?” 

Yanjun smiled, his deep dimples showing. “I’ll keep an eye out.” 

And then he was gone, a ripple of dark blue fabric in a run-down door frame, leaving Zhangjing alone with their guest. Yanjun must have trusted in the seclusion of this house, because he hardly allowed Zhangjing to go to places in the _city_ by himself, let alone stay in the middle of a forest with a wounded man who likely had a target on his back. 

He turned to the stranger. Overnight, his condition seemed to have improved considerably, colour returning to his complexion. Zhangjing lifted the sheet gently to inspect the bandages—no blood had leaked through, which must have meant that the sutures were holding. 

He let the sheets fall back and crossed to the pile of his and Yanjun’s belongings to extract his lute from the mix. When he opened its case, a stack of papers tumbled out, jostled by the rough transport of the night before. He quickly put them back in their place. 

Zhangjing’s fingers were poised to pluck when he heard a cough. Whipping around, he saw that their patient was now awake.

“Oh, gods.” He put his instrument away carefully and scrambled over to the bedside. The boy occupying it was frantically trying to get up, but judging from the tension in his features his injury was making it difficult for him. “Please calm down. You were hurt very badly.” 

When it was clear to him that Zhangjing wasn’t a threat, he stopped thrashing, but still regarded him with unmasked suspicion. Zhangjing snatched up the waterskin resting by the bed and offered it up to him. 

Slowly and gingerly, the boy on the bed levered himself up to a half-upright position. He accepted the waterskin from Zhangjing reluctantly and took a tentative sip. He coughed, then handled the water back to Zhangjing, who capped it and set it down. 

“How are you feeling?” Zhangjing asked gently. He noticed that the boy was looking around the room, his eyes seemingly searching every corner of the house. “Oh, are you looking for your sword?” 

He pointed to the table, where the long blade rested by the stub of a candle and the first aid kit. “Don’t worry, it’s safe.” 

The boy stopped searching and looked at him before coughing again to clear his throat. “Who are you?” he asked hoarsely. 

“My name is You Zhangjing,” he said. “My friend, Lin Yanjun, and I found you last night. Do you remember anything from the night before?” 

The boy shut his eyes briefly. “Yes.” A pause. “Were you the one who stepped in?” 

Zhangjing smiled and shook his head. “That would have been Yanjun. He’s in town right now. He’ll be back shortly.” 

“Please tell him that I am indebted to him.” Without warning, the boy pushed himself fully upright and swung his long legs over the side of the bed. Zhangjing got to his feet just in time and managed to brace the boy’s weight against himself as he fell with a strangled cry of pain. 

“Please be careful!” Zhangjing admonished sharply, pushing him back onto the bed, where he sat. There were tears at the corners of his eyes. “You’re in no condition to be walking around.” 

The boy shook his head. “No, I must. My friend will be worried about me.” 

“Do you mean Cai _daxia_?” Zhangjing asked. 

The boy’s head snapped up, surprised. “Yes. How did you know?” 

“You mentioned him once in your sleep.” 

“Oh.” The tips of his ears turned slightly red. “I—” 

“Just rest,” Zhangjing cut him off firmly. “Yanjun will look for Cai _daxia_ while he’s in town. Now, what’s your name?”

The boy finally relaxed some; the tension drained out of his body and he leaned against the wall with one hand covering where his wound would have been. “Chen Linong,” he said. “And I’m sorry. I owe you and Lin _daxia_ proper thanks for saving me.” 

“No need.” Zhangjing went back to his and Yanjun’s belongings and grabbed a tunic for the boy to put on. “Here. Wear this for now. Your other clothes are torn and bloody.” 

Linong took it and slipped it over his head. He was taller than Yanjun, to whom the shirt originally belonged, and the sleeves cut off a little bit before his wrist, but he smiled in a radiant manner utterly at odds with his earlier panic and suspicion. “Thank you.” 

Zhangjing smiled back. He wanted to ask Linong about what had happened last night, but he wasn’t sure what it would do for his recovery, so instead, he asked, “How are you feeling?”

Linong seemed to evaluate his condition. “I certainly could be better.” 

“I wouldn’t disagree with you on that.” Zhangjing chuckled. “Would you like something to eat? You’ll need food to regain your strength.”

“Maybe not at the moment, but thank you.” 

Zhangjing tried to find more ways to be hospitable. “Is it hurting very badly?” 

“My head more so than the injury.” Linong shrugged. “I must have hit it when I fell.” 

“We might have something to relieve the pain,” Zhangjing said, grabbing the first aid kit from the table. There were only more bandages and ointment, a bit of dried ginseng. “Maybe not. For now, though, you need to rest—Yanjun will bring back news and food.” 

_Speak of the devil_. The wooden steps just outside of the house were creaking. Lin Yanjun stepped into the room with a regality that didn’t quite match his station, but he was always like that, Zhangjing thought. In his hands he carried his sword and several paper packages connected to one another on a length of twine. 

“You’re awake,” he observed, seeing an upright Chen Linong. 

The boy quickly dipped his head. “Yes, thank you very much for saving my life.” 

Yanjun snorted. He walked in and put the packages on the table. “There was very little work left for me.” 

“Even so, I would be dead without the two of you,” Linong insisted. “How can I repay this debt?” 

“Don’t bother. Eat something and recover. We can talk about repayment in a moon’s turn, maybe.” 

“Lin Yanjun!” Zhangjing said, chastising.

“A joke.” He approached Zhangjing and whispered, “I didn’t find Cai Xukun. I’d heard from some locals that they’d seen him last night. He stayed at the local inn, but when I went there, the innkeep said he’d checked out in a hurry and went to the stables to find a horse. No one knew where he went after that.”

Zhangjing put the details together. If he was searching for a horse… “It would appear he left the town.” 

Yanjun nodded. “Yes, I would think so.” 

Zhangjing turned to their guest apologetically. “Linong, we’re sorry to tell you this, but Yanjun couldn’t find Cai _daxia_ in the town this morning.” 

“Oh.” Linong’s expression was unreadable. “He might be searching for me.” 

“Perhaps. We can search for him again later,” Yanjun suggested, not very hopefully. Why don’t you try and eat something now? We have _baozi_.” He unwrapped the largest of the three packages on the table and handed a steamed bun to Zhangjing first, then offered one to Linong.

The boy took it. “Thank you. What do the two of you do?” 

“I’m a musician,” Zhangjing answered. He laughed a little. “And in case you haven’t heard, Lin Yanjun here is the new First Sword. It seems we have that in common, don’t we? Travelling with the First Sword.” 

Linong didn’t seem to have known this, but he didn’t seem surprised, either. “Funny how the world works, isn’t it?” 

Yanjun sat down at the table and looked at the boy. Zhangjing recognized his expression as one of subtle scrutiny. “Why do you say that?” 

Linong swallowed. “I’ve been saved by two different First Swords on two different occasions.” 

“Cai _daxia_ saved you?” Zhangjing asked. 

“When I was a child.” 

Yanjun snickered a little bit. “Must not have been that long ago.” 

“Lin Yanjun!” 

“Am I wrong?” Yanjun looked at Zhangjing, the mirth in his features plain to see. “Besides, being young is a good thing. How old are you, Linong?” 

Linong paused, as if he needed to think about his answer. “...Seventeen.” 

_By the gods, he_ is _a child._ Yanjun spread his arms in a gesture that seemed to convey _you see?_ Zhangjing was forced to look at the boy sitting on the bed in a new light. _Seventeen, and a swordsman of such caliber_?

Admittedly, You Zhangjing knew very little about swords, but he thought that he had lived and traversed _jianghu_ for long enough that he understood its workings. Thinking again, perhaps he was wrong. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter is otherwise known as 'in which zhangjing is dense and yanjun is a simp.'
> 
> anyway, all of our pov characters have had their turn! can you tell who wrote each chapter? (note: zhengting, xiao gui, and nongnong have all appeared twice and we've split their chapters so far between us) if you guess correctly you get... absolutely nothing! bragging rights? we love you guys <3
> 
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	15. 拾肆

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _In which Huang Minghao is not very happy with decisions made._

As disappointed as he was at missing the opportunity to not only compete himself, but also to see Zhu Zhengting duel against Cai Xukun, Huang Minghao consoled himself with the admittedly far-fetched dream that two years later, he would be able to claim the title of First Sword himself. Until then, he told himself that he would train diligently for the day to come. 

So, he was rather surprised when he opened the door of their living quarters, a month after Xukun and his companion departed the capital city, and saw Xukun standing there, looking tousled, tired, and holding the reins to his black steed behind him. 

“Cai  _ daxia _ !” he yelped. Xukun grimaced at his volume, but even before the man could open his mouth to respond, Minghao was already turning around and hollering into the house. “Zhengting! Wenjun! The First Sword is here!”

There was a muffled reply-- probably from Chengcheng, considering how snappish the voice sounded-- but Minghao didn’t pause to listen, already gaping at Xukun again.

The man seemed different from the last time he’d seen him. His hair was sweaty and messy, dark eye bags hanging under his eyes, and his gaze, though shielded, could not hide the strange thread of urgency in them. It was like he hadn’t rested or slept in days, and he asked him if it was the case.

Xukun’s mouth twisted into a grimace. “It hasn’t been the smoothest journey.”

Minghao leaned on the doorframe. “Rather unkempt for the First Sword, huh?”

“I’m not the First Sword anymore,” he grunted, then raised his eyebrows. “Who is it now?”

“Another independent swordsman. Lin Yanjun,” he sighed, thinking about how the man had defeated Wang Yibo to take the title. His victory against all of the other sect swordsmen, as well as the continuing rumours for why Zhu Zhengting and Cai Xukun withdrew, caused quite a ruckus amongst the people. Even curious still, Lin Yanjun had, like Xukun two years earlier, rejected staying in the capital, choosing to continue on with his own travels instead. 

Minghao remembered seeing his companion, that bard who had sat beside him and Chengcheng on the second day of the wulin -- You Zhangjing or something --, beside him for much of the festivities, but hadn’t gotten an opportunity to talk with him again with how hastily Zhengting ushered them back to Yuehua.

“Oh?” Xukun raised an eyebrow. “He did all of you Yuehua people in?”

A prickle of annoyance ran down the back of his neck. “Zhengting made most of us withdraw after that first assassination attempt, so that we wouldn’t be singled out as targets. Only Zeren went in the end, since the people had already seen him fight anyway, but he lost to that mercenary, Zhou Yanchen. Remember him?” At Xukun’s confused nod, he continued. “He’s staying with us right now, as per Zhengting’s original deal with them.”

Suddenly, he remembered something extremely important, and immediately felt stupid for not asking before. “Wait, why are you here, Cai  _ daxia _ ?” Reflexively, his hand went to Xiangyang at his belt, and though Xukun’s eyes followed the movement, the man seemed unfazed.

However, before he could answer, Minghao felt a familiar weight on his shoulder. 

“Bi daifu.” Cai Xukun bowed his head as greeting, and Minghao swivelled his head back to see Wenjun do the same. 

“Cai  _ daxia _ ,” he confirmed, then gently maneuvered Minghao out of the way so that the door was uncovered. “I take it that you have something important to discuss with us?”

“Yes.” Xukun took a step forward before seemingly to remember the horse following behind him. At his momentary pause, Wenjun squeezed his shoulder. Minghao sighed internally.

“Let me take him,” he grunted, taking the lead out of Xukun’s hand. “I’ll put him with our horses for the meantime.”

Xukun grinned fleetingly and stroked the mane of his stallion once before following Wenjun into the house. As the door shut behind him, Minghao led the handsome black horse down the path and to the stables reserved for their house. He carefully shuttled the animal into the pen with his own mare, knowing that Huanghuacai wouldn’t mind the extra company. He even saw her nipping playfully at Chengcheng’s horse right beside her.  _ Traitor. _

But as he made his way back to the house, he realized something strange.  _ Where is Chen Linong? _ He had assumed that the boy was on his own horse a-ways behind Xukun, and that he would show up soon after Xukun. However, looking down the path at the house, he saw no horse, and he saw no tall boy with droopy eyes.  _ Did he go inside already?  _ Yes, that must have been it. Seeing how irritated Linong was at Xukun after they had come back from meeting with Xiao Gui and his mercenary friends, they must be close. It wouldn’t make sense if one was here without the other.

To his chagrin, it was Chengcheng who opened the door for him. “Gods. I thought tonight would be the evening where I wouldn’t need to see your face at all.”

Chengcheng scowled, his already pale and sullen features twisting even further. “As did I.” Minghao wiped his shoes on the mat at the doorway and looked up, wondering for a moment where he should go to meet them.

“They’re in the study. Zhengting and Wenjun and Cai  _ daxia _ are there.” Chengcheng looked down at him in distaste. “Even though I doubt you’ll have anything intelligent to contribute”

He ignored him, too lazy to even put his hand on Xiangyang in a way he knew Chengcheng would see, and made his way down the hall, past their kitchen and the dining room, past Quanzhe and Xinchun’s room, until he was standing in front of the sliding, papered doors of the study, Chengcheng right behind him.

Minghao slid the doors open and poked his head in. Immediately, three pairs of eyes fixed onto him.

“Minghao,” Zhengting said from where he was sitting at the table. “You should have knocked.”

He ignored him, stepping into the room and taking a seat at one of the stools on the side. Xukun’s eyes followed him, a little surprised at the blatant casualness he was showing in front of his  _ tangzhu _ , though he didn’t particularly care.

Looking around, however, a stab of confusion went through him. Linong was not here either. 

“Where is your companion, Cai  _ daxia _ ?”

Zhengting opened his mouth, probably to admonish him for speaking so blatantly, but Xukun cut across him. “Actually, he’s precisely why I’m here right now.” 

He turned to face Wenjun and Zhengting again. Minghao frowned, noticing how his fingers were tightly gripping the edge of his cup of tea. “A week ago, Linong and I travelled to Lijiang town, intending to stay overnight and to continue travelling in the morning. I was tired, so I told him that I was going to stay in for the night, but Linong told me that he wanted to see the marketplace. He loves the night market.”

_ He’s the opposite of Zhengting-ge then _ , Minghao thought, glancing over at his  _ tangzhu _ . However, Zhengting was as perfectly composed as he always was, frowning slightly at Xukun with his tea cup clenched in both hands.

“I agreed, since he usually goes to see the marketplace of every town we stay at anyways, and let him go alone. I dozed off, and when I woke up, Linong hadn’t returned.”

Zhengting frowned. “Hadn’t returned?”

“He wasn’t in the room, and he wasn’t in the inn we were staying at either,” Xukun confirmed. “In fact, when I searched the town, he wasn’t anywhere in the streets either.”

“Could he have been,” Minghao could not help but jab in, “frequenting some other establishments you did not check?”

Zhengting looked scandalized, though Xukun and Wenjun seemed amused.

“No, definitely not. Linong is younger than you may think-- he’s only seventeen-- and he has never enjoyed drinking, drugs, and, to my knowledge, has never shown an interest in brothels. Besides, it didn’t matter because I did come across something sometime in the morning after I had scoured the town all night.” Xukun put his cup of tea down onto the table and clenched his hand in a fist. “In one of the narrower alleys near the forest bordering the town, I found the bodies of six swordsmen, all wearing black, and all bearing the same logo I found when I was attacked back then during the wulin festival.”

Minghao sensed where this was going. Zhengting’s eyes widened. “Did you think it had to do with Linong’s disappearance?”

“They were killed with very few wounds: Linong’s way of doing so. I know his fighting style very well, so I recognized the marks. Then, later on, an old man approached me and told me that he had witnessed a fight there last night, where Linong was engaged in battle with a group of attackers, and, despite killing most, was eventually incapacitated. Apparently, the man had turned away, sure that he was to meet his death, but when nothing seemed to happen, he looked down and saw Linong being dragged away by some other figures.”

Zhengting sucked in a breath. “They  _ took  _ him somewhere?”

Xukun nodded, his expression dark. “Hopefully, yes. Which brings us to why I’m here. I know that earlier, I refused your request to aid you and your house to investigate this matter, but I need to find him. I’ll help you if you help me.”

The first thing that popped into Minghao’s mind was, inconveniently, very random.

“Wait, did you say _six_ bodies?” he yelped. “Linong killed _six_ _alone_?”

Xukun looked at him, put off from the random remark but not without a hint of pride in his eyes. “Linong is a very skilled swordsman. He just doesn’t like fighting unless absolutely necessary.”

“But  _ six _ -”

“That’s enough, Minghao.” Zhengting cut him off with a stern glance. He took a sip of tea from his own cup before fixing his eyes back on Xukun’s face. “ _ Daxia _ , I’m glad that you came to us for help. I know that you did not want to involve yourself in the investigation at first, but I’m still pleased that you are now, even if the reason for doing so is serious to you personally. I have no issues with you joining us, as my house was just previously discussing assembling a team to investigate anyways.”

_ Oh right. Zhengting’s grand plan. _

“What is your plan?” Xukun asked. He tapped his finger against the edge of his cup.

“To travel around jianghu, looking for other attacks and warning other sects before they can be harmed. Hopefully figuring out who is behind these assasination attempts. We would be scouring the entire map to find people, which is what you want, right,  _ daxia _ ?”

Xukun confirmed with a nod. “When do you propose to leave, and with whom will you and I be travelling with?”

This was a detail that Zhengting hadn’t revealed to them yet. Minghao had pestered him to tell him who planned to bring ever since he announced his plan at breakfast a week ago. Zhengting would be going for sure, he knew that. And apparently Cai Xukun was in as well.

In the corner of his eye, he saw Chengcheng lean forward in his seat, and he inwardly scoffed at how the boy seemed to have a notion that Zhengting was going to bring  _ him _ . Taking Chengcheng along would be no different than bringing an infant.

“For starters, I originally wanted to travel as a group of five, but with you joining, I suppose it would be six. Other than you and I, I wanted to bring the  _ gongzi  _ of the Wang household, Wang Ziyi. Have you heard of him?”

Xukun paused, then nodded hesitantly. “Once or twice. Wang governor’s son, no?”

“Indeed.” Zhengting took another sip of his tea as Minghao’s brain buzzed. The governor’s son? Zhengting had said that he’d met with him during the wulin festival to report the assassination, but he hadn’t said that they would be recruiting him for help. Nor did he mention that he was willing to aid them in the first place. With this thought, he decided that Wang Ziyi was unlikely to join them, and turned his attention back to the rest of them.

“We’ll need a medic if we’re going to travel far, and the only medic I have under my house is Wenjun,” Zhengting was saying, nodding at Wenjun, who remained expressionless. “Which isn’t a bad choice at all, you must know.”

Xukun nodded. “And the last two?”

“I’d like to bring another fighter, so maybe Ding Zeren-- you know, the boy who represented Yuehua on the first day of the exhibitions. And for the last, the mercenary, Zhou Yanchen.”

The words took a second to sink in, but when they did, Minghao was on his feet. 

Hot, cluttering thoughts were clouding his brain.  _ Zeren, Yanchen, Wang Ziyi, Wenjun, and Xukun? Why am I not going? Why is Zhengting taking a mercenary and gongzi over me? _

He opened his mouth, a protest already escaping his lips, but came face to face with a steely stare from Zhengting. Cai Xukun was looking curiously at him, but Wenjun was looking at him with something almost close to pleading. But it wasn’t until Zhengting again flashed an icy glare at him that he sat down, somehow swallowing down his indignation.

Chengcheng was impassive beside him, which made him even angrier about the whole situation.  _ He must think that we're at the same level now _ .

He continued to smoulder in his stool, hands clenched tightly in his lap, as Zhengting finished telling Cai Xukun his plan. They would leave in a few days. They would be travelling on horseback. Zhengting wanted to travel to the towns Wang Ziyi had told him of other murders or assassinations. He needed Xukun to go ask Ziyi to accompany them, because he might be reluctant to abandon his position in government, but the appearance of the First Sword coupled with Zhengting’s own involvement might sway him otherwise. They would find Linong.

Xukun stood, clasping his sword-- a long, silver thing with a tired looking wooden grip and a wooden tablet attached to the handle with red string-- in his two hands and bowing to Zhengting. “Thank you, Zhu  _ tangzhu _ , for helping me.”

Zhengting mirrored him. “Please just call me Zhu Zhengting. And we’re not helping you as much as you’re helping us.”

Xukun didn’t say anything more, but dipped his head in a brief sign of thanks again. 

Him and Linong must really be close, Minghao thought, if Cai Xukun was willing to embark on an entire investigation to find him again. Perhaps even to the same degree as he and Zhengting. Then again, he thought bitterly, that didn’t prevent Zhengting from not choosing him to accompany him on his travels.

“Wenjun, could you show Xukun the way to the guest bedroom? I reckon he’s tired from his long ride. I would show our guest around but I think I need to have a talk with Minghao.” Zhengting fixed his eyes on how sullen he must have look. “Chengcheng, could you run down and tell Zeren, Quanzhe, Xinchun, and Zhou  _ daxia _ that we have a guest and that they should prepare accordingly? I believe they’re sparring in the garden right now.”

Chengcheng nodded, and as he passed by him, his eyes met Minghao’s. Chengcheng’s eyes were derisive as they met his gaze, and Minghao hoped with every fiber of his being that he understood the warning and dislike he was trying to project with his own.

Xukun and Wenjun left, Wenjun already explaining to Xukun the structure of the house Zhengting’s house lived in, sliding the door shut with a clank as they stepped out of the room.

Minghao was by Zhengting’s side as soon as the door closed, swinging himself into Xukun’s chair and leaning forward on his elbows. “Care to explain why I’m not included in your noble quest?”

Zhengting didn’t seem fazed by his violent tone, nor by his complete abandonment of formality. He took a suffering sip of his tea; he must have been used to Minghao’s antics by now, he thought. “You’re more needed here, at Yuehua, than beside me in the mountains.”

“Then how come Zeren is going? Isn’t he needed here as well?” he whispered furiously.

“Zeren could be needed here as well, yes. But Minghao, you’re the most senior member of my house other than Wenjun, and Wenjun needs to come to be my medic.”

“Alright, but what about the mercenary? He and his friends made an attempt on your life! You would trust him alongside you, every moment of the day?”

“No,” Zhengting admitted. “But Zhou Yanchen wouldn’t be stupid enough to not uphold his end of our deal with Gramarie. And him coming with me would be less pressure on you to keep everything in line when I’m gone.”

He shook his head in disbelief, “You’d trust me with your house?”

“I’d trust you with my life,” Zhengting’s voice took on a thread of tenderness he didn’t always love to show, especially when he was causing mischief, which was admittedly much of the time. And  _ fuck _ . He was weak to tender Zhengting.

He shook his head violently to try to dispel the image of the softness in Zhengting’s eyes. “That wasn’t what I meant. I- I can’t lead a house, not when I don’t want to. Please, Zhengting. Let me come with you instead. I’m better on a horse with a sword, you know that. Xiangyang hasn’t seen actual fighting in so long. Please.” His voice took on a pleading tone towards the end, he himself making sure to look Zhengting in the eye with the best pleading look he could muster.

Zhengting sighed, then placed his cup back onto the table. He reached across the table and took one of Minghao’s hands, much like a mother would. “Please, Minghao. I need you here. I need you to watch over my house when I’m gone. Xinchun and Quanzhe are too fresh-- _mengzhu_ and the other  _ tangzhu _ s wouldn’t respect their authority. And Chengcheng has barely been at the sect for long. You’re the only one, and the only one I trust to lead too. Please, stay here. For me.”

_ Fucking Zhengting _ . He was looking at him now with the same pleading look he had tried to pull off, though on Zhengting’s pretty features, it was much, much more effective. Minghao let out a sigh; sometimes, it seemed easy to forget Zhengting’s seniority and power when taking into account their close relationship as well as the occasional antics he pulled off like this one. 

Minghao let out a long sigh. “Fine. I’ll stay here, even if I’m not happy about it. If it helps you sleep at night, I’ll take your place as  _ tangzhu _ . But  _ fucking hell _ , Zhengting. Don’t go for that long.” Another thought struck him. “Will our house just proceed as usual?”

“Yes. I’ll make sure to tell _mengzhu_ of our plans as well as your coming role. You might be called in for various meetings or duties, but for the most part, life here should carry on as normal. You could implement some new training regimes, you’ve always wanted to do that,” Zhengting suggested. “You could help Chengcheng and the other novices improve.”

It was like he had slapped him. “Chengcheng!” Minghao jerked his hand out of Zhengting’s grasp. “I’ll have to spend more time with him!”

“You both could take this as an opportunity to grow closer.” Zhengting stood and brushed off his robes. “You bicker so much these days I can’t seem to even hear my own thoughts.”

“That’s--” Dramatically, he rolled off his seat and onto the ground, falling to his knees at Zhengting’s feet. “I already spend so much time as his training partner!”

“Apparently, though, it hasn’t been enough to stop the barbs between you two.” Zhengting looked unimpressed at his listless form on the floor. “I’ll go tell the others of your new responsibilities. I’ll need to tell _mengzhu_ as well.”

He readjusted Huanghun and Liming at his side, the dark blade clinking with the light. Minghao followed the movement of his fingers as they tucked the swords more comfortably in their scabbards.

He couldn’t help but voice out a final complaint as Zhengting left. “At least let me sleep in your room when you’re gone. It’s bigger, and I’ll get a break from Chengcheng at least in the evenings.”

All Zhengting said was, “Get off the floor, Minghao,” as he slid open the doors and left the room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

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	16. 拾伍

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _In which Wang Ziyi runs off with a nonconformist._

“ _Gongzi_ , there is a man claiming to be the former First Sword, Cai Xukun, at the door.” 

Wang Ziyi looked up from his cup to see one of the servants bowing at the doorway. Before he could say anything, however, Dong Youlin turned his head almost lazily and raised an eyebrow. 

“Claiming to be Cai Xukun, or is it actually him on our doorstep?” he drawled, though Ziyi could tell from the alertness in his eyes that he wasn’t as relaxed as he seemed. It was always something Ziyi found admirable in Youlin, how he could mask any seriousness or emotion with the most laid-back, relaxed stance. “You’ve seen what the man looks like, no?”

The man was quick to bow again. “I apologize, Captain. I believe it _is_ the former First Sword. He is demanding to meet with Wang _gongzi._ He claims that he has a message for him.”

If it really was him, Ziyi ought to be surprised. He got to his feet immediately, a flurry of thoughts crowding around in his head. What business did the previous First Sword have with him?

He wondered if it had anything to do with the attacks on him during the _wulin_ festival. Zhu Zhengting had told him that Cai Xukun had been attacked as well. Even if he had been, however, it didn’t exactly explain why the man had a message for him now, weeks after that night. 

“Bring him in,” he told the servant, who bowed and left the room to retrieve him. As soon as the man left, he snapped his head back at a frowning Youlin. “Didn’t you say that he didn’t spend his time in the capital?”

“I did.” Youlin furrowed his eyebrows. “To my knowledge, Cai Xukun tends to stray away from larger cities, especially one as regulated as the capital city.”

“What message would he have for me?” Ziyi wondered aloud, though Youlin didn’t seem to have any ideas himself.

“I don’t know. This is the first time I’ve heard of him approaching the authorities for anything.” Youlin’s eyes widened. “You haven’t met him before, right?”

“I’ve seen him from afar,” Ziyi admitted. “But I’ve never had the pleasure to see him duel. A pity he withdrew.”

Youlin hummed. 

Before Ziyi could breach the topic of the attacks Zhu Zhengting had said Cai Xukun suffered, he heard the shuffling of feet outside the room and straightened up, exchanging one last glance with Youlin.

The servant had returned, with two soldiers behind him escorting another man between them. The servant bowed, “Cai _daxia_ , for Wang _gongzi_ ,” then stepped to the side.

Ziyi had almost forgotten what sort of man he was.

Though he had seen Xukun before, two years earlier when the man was just seventeen, it was still somewhat of a surprise when he saw the slender, almost slight man with black hair held back in a ponytail and falling over his perfectly heart-shaped face. The supposed former First Sword of _jianghu,_ the man surrounded by stories of his immense skill and dangerous swordsmanship, was almost soft-looking, in Ziyi’s opinion. He was tall, but not as tall as Ziyi himself. Though he was well-built, signalled by the way he held himself and how his black robes draped over his frame, he wasn’t nearly as broad or muscular as Youlin standing beside him. He had a serious mouth framed by full lips and high cheekbones, his nose high and delicate, almost like a woman’s. 

Ziyi trailed his eyes upwards and met Xukun’s. They were large and dark, resembling a doe’s, and if he had just spied him out of a crowd, Ziyi might have thought that he was any other soft, pretty boy who hadn’t touched a weapon in his life. However, as he met Cai Xukun’s gaze, he realized that, as pretty as his eyes were, they were sharper and darker than any other he had seen before.

Cai Xukun was just as handsome as the rumours had said he was. Perhaps even more. His aura was just as Youlin had described as well, full of impenetrable power and confidence.

“Wang _gongzi_.” Cai Xukun took a small step forward before clasping the long, silver sword previously at his belt in his hands, a red string and an accompanying wooden tag falling over his fingers. He bowed, and automatically, Ziyi felt himself do the same.

“Cai _daxia_ ,” he said, mouth dry. “To what do I owe this pleasure?”

“A message from myself and Zhu _tangzhu_ of Yuehua,” the man replied. His voice was more boyish than he had expected as well. But perhaps he should have. The man was barely that, only nineteen. “I think you might like to hear it”

“Oh?” Ziyi gestured to the tea table. “If Cai _daxia_ and Zhu _tangzhu_ wish to deliver a message to me, it is my pleasure to be receiving it. Please, take a seat and let me serve you some tea.”

The servants hurried to ready another chair and teacup without Ziyi even needing to speak. Cai Xukun looked warily at it for a second before complying, sinking into his seat directly across from Ziyi as he moved his sword back to his waist. Ziyi sat down as well.

“Firstly, introductions. I do not believe we’ve formally met before?”

“No.” Xukun took the cup of tea being offered to him by a servant. “But I think both of us know who the other is.”

Momentarily taken aback by the man’s honesty, Ziyi couldn’t help but agree. “Perhaps you’re right, Cai _daxia_ , First Sword of jianghu. This here is my head of guard, Dong Youlin.” 

Youlin gave a respectful nod to Xukun, who did the same back.

“Former First Sword,” Xukun corrected gently. “I heard someone else took the title this year.”

“Indeed. Another independent swordsman who declined to remain in the capital after his win.” Ziyi raised his eyebrows. “Much like you, I suppose.”

Xukun smiled slightly. “I prefer travelling around _jianghu_ with my companion, Chen Linong, rather than stay cooped up in one place for too long.”

“But you’re back, a few weeks after the opening of the _wulin_ festival. Why would that be?”

Cai Xukun studied him for a moment. “I’ve already told you. I have a message from Zhu _tangzhu_ and myself—a proposal, really—regarding the investigations you have been conducting on the murders around jianghu as well as the attacks on myself and Zhu _tangzhu_ during the wulin. I presume he has already informed you of them?”

“He has. He told me that you had left the capital the same night you and your companion were accosted by men lurking in your inn.”

“Yes, we did.” Xukun sighed, taking a sip of his tea. “Though Zhu _tangzhu_ wished for me and Linong to stay with him at the Yuehua grounds to aid him with his investigations, at the time, I was simply uninterested in being involved with wulin politics. I thought that I could leave and no one would approach us again. Even if they did, I believed that Linong and I would be attentive enough to defend ourselves.”

“What happened, then?”

A shard of emotion flickered across Cai Xukun’s dark eyes. “Whoever was behind the attacks, they were smart enough to not attack the two of us again. I haven’t drawn a sword on anyone since the first attack on me at the inn. However, while they didn’t approach me again, they went after Linong.”

Ziyi sucked in a breath. Attacking a poor, defenseless boy to gain leverage on the previous First Sword. 

“According to witnesses, Linong defended himself well. I found the area where he had fought them off littered with six bodies, all bearing the symbol of the group who had attacked me in the first place and, to my knowledge, the symbol that you are currently investigating.”

Ziyi needed a moment before answering, the ideas in his head suddenly dashed apart by what Xukun had said. He shot a glance at Youlin, who, for once, looked equally as surprised. Six bodies, all apparently killed by Chen Linong, the man who supposedly had no talent with the sword. _Six_.

“Yes. The red circle with the strange cross-like symbol in the center?” He asked, when his head cleared away the questions he had regarding Chen Linong’s skill.

“Indeed. The witnesses told me as well that sometime during the fight, Linong was knocked unconscious and that he was last seen being dragged away by another pair of men.” He placed the cup back down onto the table. “I searched the town, and I didn’t find him. When I realized that they had probably taken him somewhere, I travelled back to Yuehua’s base to find Zhu _tangzhu_ , as I thought that if he was still conducting investigations on who exactly is behind the red cross symbol, I could help them to find where Linong was taken.”

Chen Linong must have been important to Cai Xukun, if the tiny tremor at the end of his speech and the hard determination in his eyes were anything to go by. 

“Thank you for telling me this, Cai _daxia_ ,” he said when his mind had absorbed the information. “But you haven’t told me why you and Zhu _tangzhu_ would think to tell me of this.”

Xukun nodded. “Zhu _tangzhu_ and I are assembling a team to travel around jianghu to search for clues and indications on who might be behind the attacks, and, in my case, to find Linong. We are creating a group of six to travel with us, and we hoped that you could join us.”

Ziyi raised an eyebrow. “You mean, go with you on your travels around jianghu?”

“Would it not serve your purposes well? You would be able to freely investigate the murder cases I hear you have been dealing with. You wouldn’t have to risk any of your soldiers’ lives either; you would be travelling with swordsmen such as Zhu _tangzhu_ and myself.” Xukun said this last part with a very clear look at Youlin, who, to his credit, did not flinch apart from the very slightest twitch at the corner of his mouth that no one but Ziyi could probably tell anyways.

Ziyi wasn’t sure what he should answer. He glanced over at Youlin, who seemed to sense his hesitation and cut in with a cold, “And abandon his role governing over the city and surrounding areas?”

Xukun met Youlin’s hard stare completely unfazed, a feat that Ziyi silently marvelled at. The First Sword was surprising him more and more. “Both of you must know how important this investigation is to jianghu as a whole.” Then, without letting Ziyi or Youlin respond, he said, more daringly than ever, “And according to what I know from village gossip and from Zhu _tangzhu_ ’s reports, the government has not been entirely effective at investigating who is behind these attacks.”

To his own surprise, Ziyi was hardly offended by Xukun’s daring remark. He gazed levelly at the previous First Sword’s piercing stare, dark and bold, and felt his breath catch in his throat at the intensity of the look. Xukun wasn’t wrong in any way, though he’d like to think otherwise. Him and Youlin had scoured the locations of the murders and had turned up with virtually nothing. The witnesses and townspeople who might have information were wary of saying anything once they realized that Ziyi’s party hadn’t been effective at defending powerful swordsmen from an unseen organization, and some were less trusting of soldiers in the first place. It had been frustrating; Youlin had just yesterday muttered in the bath that they hadn’t had anything to show over the past few weeks of investigations apart from a growing list of names and the recurrence of that same red symbol. And, he tacked on warily, growing civilian awareness and concern.

Youlin’s mouth did twitch visibly this time. “You are bold, Cai _daxia_ , for saying so.”

“I don’t think I’m wrong. Though I’m a man who rarely partakes in village gossip and prefer to stick to my own intuition, in cases where they both point to the same conclusion, such as this one, I am inclined to speak my mind.” Xukun raised his own eyebrow. “Could no one take Wang _gongzi_ ’s place for a couple of months while he travels and effectively conducts investigations?”

Youlin opened his mouth to presumably butt back with something, but Ziyi put his hand up and he closed it, eyeing him warily. When he felt both Youlin as well as Xukun’s eyes on him, he put it back down and faced Xukun again. “First, thank you, Cai _daxia_ , for inviting me to your group.”

Xukun nodded, and Ziyi continued. “I see the worth of taking part in such an investigative team, but I must speak to Youlin in private about this matter before I make a decision. Would you mind if we spoke privately for a moment?”

Youlin was staring at him, obviously taken aback by the tone Ziyi had that conveyed how he was seriously considering the idea. He was right to do so; Ziyi _was_ considering it.

Xukun seemed to think so, easily standing and bowing his head as both a permission as well as a courtesy, led by a servant out the door. When he had gone, Youlin snapped his head towards Ziyi and was on him in a second. 

“Wang Ziyi,” Youlin hissed. “Are you seriously considering this man’s proposal?”

“Why not?” Ziyi shrugged. “He wasn’t wrong when he said that our own investigation had come up fruitless. And if Zhu _tangzhu_ is behind this plan as well, there is no reason to doubt its seriousness.”

“You would be leaving behind your governing duties for weeks, perhaps even months, for a search that could come up equally as fruitless,” Youlin argued, raising up and placing both hands on the table. The servants at the edges of the room looked noticeably uncomfortable with how close Youlin was peering at him, not to mention the overly casual language used by him with the _gongzi_. 

“It would be a gamble, yes,” Ziyi admitted, dropping his gaze from Youlin’s hard eyes down to his hands. “But it would be better than continuing on with our own investigations and receiving almost guaranteed failure. We’d be better off if we took a chance and went along with Zhu _tangzhu_ and Cai Xukun’s plan.”

Youlin looked conflicted. “Why must you go then? With you gone, who would rule?”

“You could.” Ziyi stared evenly at Youlin’s surprised face. “You know how to do so, no? I haven’t made a single decision nor have I performed any duties without you by my side, protecting and advising me. You probably know how to manage things around here even better than I do, with your better memory and all.” Ziyi knew Youlin couldn’t argue against that; he had even made jokes before about how much of a better ruler he would be in place of Ziyi. 

Changing tactics, Youlin’s voice took on a more pleading tone. “I could go in place of you, Ziyi. I could even just come with you. The mountains are a dangerous place, Ziyi. You’re the _gongzi_ —”

“It’s precisely because I’m _gongzi_ that I must go,” Ziyi argued. “I could use my status to convince more information out of the surrounding government officials. Besides,” he paused, reflecting for a moment. “I haven’t seen all of jianghu yet, despite one day becoming it’s ruler. I need to understand my people first before I judge them.”

Youlin sighed, and Ziyi knew he had convinced him. Just for Youlin’s own worries, however, he added, “You wouldn’t need to worry about my own safety either, Youlin. I’ll be with Cai Xukun and Zhu Zhengting, the two best swordsmen in the entire land. Both of them can take down more than five men in combat, and according to Xukun, the other three warriors accompanying us would be equally as competent. Xukun doesn’t seem like a man who would exaggerate such details.”

A long pause. “Your father would be displeased if he knew I was going to be left in charge of the city.” Youlin sunk down, resting his defeated face in his hands.

“He trusts you as much as I do.” Ziyi reached out a hand and rubbed him comfortingly on the shoulder. “He wouldn’t think too much of it once I’m gone, so as long as he doesn’t know before I leave, both of us should be fine. Anyways, Youlin, the safety of the civilians are more important, no?”

Youlin’s head shot up, eyes wide and almost insulted. “Of course!” He paused, then to Ziyi’s surprise, flushed red. “But my first priority is, and will always be, ensuring your own safety, _gongzi_.” Youlin laid his hand on Ziyi’s, leaning in closer than before. “I took an oath, Ziyi, when I was sworn into this family, to protect you with my last breath. If you died, I would have no reason to live.”

His chest tightened at the honest intensity reflected in Youlin’s eyes, and an immense affection for the man who had grown up with him and had saved his life on many occasions grew in his heart. “I won’t die, Youlin.” More playfully, he pushed Youlin’s shoulder hard enough to send him toppling back onto his butt. “Besides, no offense, but Xukun and Zhengting are probably just as skilled, if not, much _more_ skilled than you.”

A shadow of a grin passed through Youlin’s face, though his mouth was scowling. “Don’t replace me when you’re gone either; if you replaced me, that would be even worse than if you died. At least, in that case, I would have less shame.”

Ziyi laughed with him. “It’s decided then? I’ll agree to accompany Xukun and Zhengting on their investigation around jianghu, and you’ll remain here to govern while I’m gone?”

Youlin sighed once again. “If it is what you wish.”

Ziyi turned, arm already raised to gesture for a servant to invite Xukun back into the room. However, as soon as the man bowed out the room, he felt a hand grab hard at his arm.

Youlin was no longer smiling when he looked at him this time. Eyes solemn, a rare emotion Ziyi couldn’t even decipher creeping into his gaze, he hummed, “You must stay safe though, _gongzi_ . You _must_.”

The unfamiliar urgency in his voice along with the grip he had on his arm compelled him to swallow dryly and nod again.

***

When he told Xukun of his decision, the man, to his disappointment, did not react at all. He simply nodded in a way that told Ziyi perhaps he had expected this outcome from the start and thanked him for taking him up on his offer. Youlin still eyed him warily, though there didn’t seem much of a reason to do so. Xukun was polite afterwards, patiently explaining all of the aspects of Zhengting’s plan and informing him of what was expected of him.

When he had finished speaking, it was dusk, and Ziyi, weary from the day of discussions and planning, poured Xukun the last of the tea and asked, “It’s late now. Would you like to stay here for an evening? We can leave for Yuehua in the morning. I’m sure Zhu Zhengting wouldn’t mind.”

Again, to his surprise, a brief flicker of annoyance flashed across the man’s handsome face. “What I choose to do is none of Zhu Zhengting’s responsibility. I do what I want to do on my own accord.” He paused, peering at Ziyi’s expression. “But thank you for inviting me nonetheless.”

Feeling shaken, Ziyi said, more hesitatingly, “It was an honour for you and Zhu _tangzhu_ to consider me for this quest in the first place.” 

Xukun peered at him again, his large eyes almost boring into him with the intensity of his gaze. Ziyi wondered idly how his sweet faced traveller could accompany a man as handsome yet intense as Cai Xukun, but clapped his hands before his thoughts could get the better of him. Immediately, two other servants arrived.

“Please show Cai _daxia_ to the guest quarters,” he told them. “And prepare a horse and supplies for a trip.” He glanced at Xukun. “I take that I should only prepare for myself?”

He nodded. “Yuehua is preparing most of the essentials, so bring what you think you would personally need for a trip.”

His gaze was steady now, serious and proud, and above all else, powerful. Inexplicably, Ziyi felt for a moment that their roles were reversed: that Cai Xukun was the governor's son and he himself was just a travelling swordsman. The power the other man radiated seemed to draw him, and Ziyi had to internally shake himself a few times to free himself from whatever Cai Xukun had over him.

But as the man turned and followed the servant to the guest quarters, Ziyi watched the straightness of his back, the way he held his head, like he had no care in the world, so free and so powerful, and found himself more drawn in than ever.

***

The next morning was wet and grey. 

There was a light drizzle from the skies from the moment Ziyi opened his eyes, the air damp and the sky grey, but still with soft white sunlight peeking through the clouds. It was cool, but not so much to be uncomfortable, a gentle breeze filtering through the sky.

He said as much to Youlin as they walked down to the stables, his stomach filled with a light breakfast of egg and soup. 

“I’d say that it’s a fine day for travel,” Youlin mused in response. “It’s rainy, yes, but not enough to be an actual downpour. Feels nice.” He added on the last statement with a swing of his arms.

“Indeed,” his boots squished against the dewy grass, “Cai Xukun is down at the stables already?”

“Yes, he rose early, according to the servants. He was out and preparing his own things and riding his horse around before we even ate breakfast.”

Ziyi raised an eyebrow. “Early riser indeed.”

They didn’t speak again until the stables were in sight, the scent of manure and the snorting of the animals inside pervading his senses. Ziyi could hear another voice, low and soft, and recognized it as Xukun’s.

“You rise early,” he commented, as he stepped inside the wooden building and came face to face with the man in question. Xukun raised his head from where he was previously tending to his horse-- a black stallion. It was a handsome horse.

Xukun blinked. “I enjoy the early mornings.” He gently brushed his horse’s hair away from it’s face. “I take that you’re prepared to leave?”

Ziyi looked at the bag strapped to his own horse’s flank, then felt at the sword and smaller bag at his waist. “More or less.”

“Then let’s go.”

Ziyi climbed onto his own horse’s back, the chestnut stallion allowing him to mount him as he continued to chew at some grass. He slipped his feet into the saddle, hands finding the reins, and turned to see Xukun do the same. 

When it was all done, Xukun glanced at him in a way that asked if they could leave. Ziyi swallowed and looked back down at Youlin.

His guard was expressionless as usual, his emotions thickly hidden behind his regular formality. His hands clenched at his sides, he stared up at Ziyi, as if he was thinking of what to say. Ziyi felt a strange disconnect from the man, almost like he was letting go of his hand after a very long time; it was the first time he would be separated from Youlin, he realized. He wasn’t even sure when they would see each other again.

Youlin cleared his throat. “Stay safe, _gongzi_.”

“I will. Please take care of things while I’m gone; you do it better than I do anyways.”

Youlin smiled. “Noted.” He opened his mouth again, then closed it. Ziyi recognized that he was biting the inside of his cheek and smiled. 

“Good-bye for now, Youlin. Take care of yourself.”

For a second, Youlin looked like he might want to say something more. Raising his head, his eyes suddenly grew larger-- not incredibly so, but almost as if he had realized something. His mouth trembled, but surprisingly, he held his tongue.

Ziyi could feel his eyes on him as he rode out, leaving Youlin and the stables behind him, the gait of Cai Xukun’s horse leading ahead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> we took a break from posting last week since it was finals, but we hope that this chapter made up for it! something about ziyi being starstruck by hot, cynical cai xukun is very accurate.
> 
> our socials if you want to chat!  
>  **ree:** [twt](https://twitter.com/ramenreee) | [cc](https://curiouscat.me/ramenree)  
>  **mi:** [twt](https://twitter.com/maangoism) | [cc](https://curiouscat.me/aiwenism)


	17. 拾陆

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _In which Lin Yanjun makes a decision on everyone's behalf._

If anyone was favoured by the gods themselves, it was Chen Linong. Merely a day and two nights after they’d found him beaten half to death, the kid was already walking without assistance, as if his wounds were little more than a minor inconvenience. Lin Yanjun wasn’t sure whether he should have been awed or a little afraid—perhaps both. 

“Oh, to be young and robust again,” he said mournfully, earning himself a very much ceremonious eye-roll from You Zhangjing. “What? Can’t a man dream?” 

“With a taste for dramatics like yours, you could be an actor,” Zhangjing quipped back. “It’s not too late to take up theatre.” 

Yanjun laughed and spied Linong doing the same as the boy looked upon their exchange. “What do you think, Linong?” Yanjun asked him. “Would I make a good actor?” 

“I… I think so,” the boy said, a little surprised to have been called on. “But I don’t know much about theatre.” 

The three of them were seated around the small table, the remains of breakfast laid out before them in the form of egg shells and empty paper wrappings from the buns Yanjun had bought yesterday. Today, they would return to the town with Linong in tow to look for his travel companion—Cai Xukun. 

If Lin Yanjun had to be completely candid, however, he doubted that their search would prove fruitful. By all accounts of the townspeople, Cai  _ daxia _ had left the town the day previous, presumably to search for Chen Linong, or maybe not. Yanjun didn’t know the man, so he didn’t have any guesses. Nevertheless, the possibility that Cai Xukun would turn up somewhere in the town was very low.

After tidying their belongings and putting the little house back in order, they set out. It took a little bit longer to navigate the forest with Linong’s injuries, but they were back in town by mid-morning. 

“Where did you say you were staying, Linong?” Zhangjing asked. “We can check there first.” 

“The Yu Family Inn,” Linong replied. His complexion was pale in the bright sunlight, and there was something slightly uneasy about his countenance. “But you’ve checked there already, haven’t you, Lin  _ daxia _ ?” 

“Yes,” Yanjun admitted. “But we can check again.”

The results did not change. The innkeeper was surprised to see Linong with two people who were not Cai Xukun, but his answer remained the same—a day ago, Cai Xukun asked after a horse and departed hastily. The stables he visited shortly thereafter yielded little more progress, although they did learn that the ex-First Sword had taken a large black stallion. 

“Our fastest,” the stablehand added unhelpfully.

Yanjun patted Linong on the shoulder sympathetically. “Do you have any idea where he may have gone? Anywhere he would have cause to search for you?” 

“Maybe if I knew who the men who attacked me were,” said Linong. “Xukun would have gone back to investigate, I have no doubt of it.” 

Yanjun didn’t like the prospect—he had revisited the scene of the confrontation yesterday, and law enforcement was all over the place. The last thing they needed was for someone to recognize Linong and Yanjun and somehow paint them to be the villains. Not to mention the bodies and any other pieces of evidence would have been removed by this point.

Zhangjing tugged at his sleeve to get his attention. “Do you think-” 

Yanjun put a finger to his lips. “Hold that thought,” he said. “Let’s go somewhere else to speak.” 

A few minutes later they were relocated to a quiet, shaded alley between a noodle store and a tailor’s shop. For some reason, Linong kept on looking at the noodles somewhat wistfully, and Yanjun asked if he was hungry. 

“Oh, no,” he replied, and didn’t elaborate. 

He let the matter drop and turned to Zhangjing. “To answer your question, maybe. But you had best hope there’s no connection because we’re in no condition to fend off another attack like that.”

What Zhangjing was wondering was whether the attack on Linong had anything to do with the men who had approached them at the night market during the  _ wulin _ festival. Yanjun had been entertaining the same thought ever since Zhangjing brought it up two nights ago, and with the rumors of murders that had yet to be dispelled, it was looking more and more likely.

_ “Then he will show you no mercy when everything changes.” _

Were things about to change? 

“Say, Linong,” Yanjun began, “have you crossed any mysterious strangers lately? In particular ones who claim to be altering the world order?” 

Linong’s eyes widened. “I… as a matter of fact, yes.” 

“When and where?” Zhangjing asked. 

“In the capital, during the  _ wulin  _ festival,” Linong answered. “Xukun was approached by a group of four men and they had said something about changing  _ wulin _ , changing  _ jianghu _ . When Xukun turned their offer down… well, they’d attacked us then, but we killed them.” Something else seemed to occur to the boy. “It wasn’t only us—there was also an attempt made on Zhu  _ tangzhu _ of Yuehua’s life, although the perpetrators didn’t seem to be connected.” 

Yanjun and Zhangjing shared a look. Zhu Zhengting and Cai Xukun had both been attacked during the  _ wulin _ festival and the two subsequently withdrew from the competition. Two weeks later, not too far from the capital, Chen Linong, Cai Xukun’s travelling companion, was also attacked. And rumours of the murders and disappearance of powerful swordsmen had been circulating for months now. It couldn’t be mere happenstance, could it? 

Evidently, Linong didn’t think so, either. “That’s it,” he said, his drawn face suddenly animated. “Yuehua. That’s where I should go. If I were Xukun, I’d head there because they could have more leads by now.” 

Yanjun frowned. Yuehua wasn’t too far from their location, but it wasn’t exactly  _ close _ either. It would be over a week’s travel given that they didn’t have horses, and Cai Xukun was well ahead of them if he was riding quickly. Not to mention that a very long detour back to the capital was not a part of Yanjun’s carefully laid plans.

“Then this is where we part,” he told Linong bluntly. Zhangjing looked up at him in surprise. “You Zhangjing and I are headed east.”

“We are?” Zhangjing asked. Yanjun shot him a look that hopefully conveyed  _ I’ll explain later. _ Zhangjing, thankfully, accepted it and said, “I suppose we are, then. You’re welcome to join us if you wish.”

Linong fell silent. Yanjun felt a tiny twinge of guilt at the sight; they were leaving the boy with little in the ways of choices. Either he chose to continue on with Yanjun and Zhangjing, away from his goal, or risk the journey to the capital alone whilst heavily injured from an assault that may recur. If Linong was reasonable, the choice was obvious, however undesirable. 

“Where exactly are you headed in the east, Lin  _ daxia? _ ” There was something crestfallen about his tone that compounded Yanjun’s feeling of iniquity, but he pushed it aside. Times were special—there was no room for unnecessary sympathies.

“If you’d believe me, somewhere that might have more answers to all of this,” Yanjun replied. “We’re going to Xiangjiao.”

* * *

A full bell later, the three of them were seated in the back of a young radish farmer’s cart, bumping along the uneven road towards the coast. Yanjun was almost beginning to think that walking would have been more comfortable, although he had to admit that the farmer had cut them a fairly reasonable deal. Three coppers per person was hardly a fortune. 

“Where exactly are you headed, sir?” Zhangjing was the one to make polite conversation, which surprised Yanjun because normally the bard was intimidated by people such as the sword-bearing radish farmer that drove the cart, drawn by a pair of sturdy plowhorses. 

“I’ll just be around at the seaside markets,” the farmer answered gruffly. “And you fellas, with the fancy swords, headed for Xiangjiao, are you?” 

“That’s correct,” said Yanjun. For some absurd reason, he was happy the farmer had taken notice of Guhan. “You have a fine weapon yourself, sir.” 

The farmer looked down at his own sword and grinned. The smile softened his angular features considerably. “Well, you need to protect yourself on the road, so I picked up a few skills here and there from a master,” he said, almost proudly. “But I decided the sect life wasn’t for me.” He paused. “I’m Lou Zibo.” 

Yanjun, Zhangjing, and Linong introduced themselves one by one. Once all the small talk was out of the way, Linong settled down with his back to the side of the cart and his shoulder against the colossal pile of white radishes. Despite it only being late morning, the boy looked weary already—understandable enough, given his ordeal only two nights prior. It wasn’t long before he shut his eyes. 

Yanjun sat side by side with Zhangjing at the back of the cart, their feet dangling over the road. For a few moments, neither of them spoke. Yanjun watched the greenery on either side of the worn dirt path amble by. Zhangjing attended to his lute, wedging it between their bedrolls so it wouldn’t be jostled by the rough transport. 

“Why did you suddenly decide to go back to Xiangjiao?” Zhangjing asked him quietly, once his instrument was secure. His voice was low, presumably, as to not rouse Linong with their words.

There wasn’t anything accusatory about his tone, surprisingly; Yanjun had been prepared for an admonishing, perhaps over neglecting to inform him of the change of plans—no, not  _ change _ of plans. Ever since their encounter with the men in the capital, Yanjun’s instinct had told him to stay away from further altercations. If given the choice, he would have avoided engaging with Linong’s assailants two nights ago as well, but the situation hadn’t left him with one. Nevertheless, returning to Xiangjiao had been his intention for the past two weeks, and he had been slowly steering them in the correct direction. 

“You heard Linong.” He opted against explaining the motivation behind his decision, because for an unarmed singer You Zhangjing was sometimes awfully certain that he did not require any kind of protection in  _ jianghu _ . “These people are coming after the most powerful swordsmen in all of  _ wulin _ . The safest place now would be a sect.” 

“Why not Yuehua, then?” Zhangjing questioned. “They’re the most powerful sect.” 

Yanjun cleared his throat. “Correction: a lesser sect. Zhu Zhengting has been attacked. Yuehua likely has targets on their backs.” Not to mention that if Lin Yanjun had to entrust You Zhangjing’s life to anybody, it would be his ex-sectmates of Xiangjiao. 

“But they weren’t attacked in their stronghold,” Zhangjing argued. “Surely the attackers know better than that.” 

Zhangjing wasn’t naive, Yanjun thought, but he wasn’t a swordsman. He didn’t quite see the possibility of danger or understand the thinly veiled threats that had been delivered two weeks ago at the night market, not the way Yanjun did. Sometimes, Yanjun wished Zhangjing would see the world the same way he did, and come to the same conclusions; at the same time, he wouldn’t change You Zhangjing in this life or the next. Honest, optimistic You Zhangjing who played music for the masses and gave to the poor and was just so  _ good _ that Lin Yanjun sometimes thought he intended to ascend as a god in the afterlife. So he tried his best to explain. 

“These are people who attempted to kill the First Sword and one of the strongest contenders for  _ mengzhu _ during the  _ wulin _ festival, when all the best swordsmen in the nation are gathered in one place,” he said. “Not to mention, these men are  _ expendable _ for whoever is behind them. You can tell by their numbers. Zhangjing, do you really think they have anything to fear?” 

Zhangjing went silent. For a moment, Yanjun was almost afraid that he was angry with him, but then their eyes met and then it was not fear but guilt he felt. He had done everything in his power to ensure that Zhangjing had nothing beyond his music to worry about, yet what he saw in Zhangjing’s eyes now was worry. 

“What about you, Lin Yanjun?” he asked. “They approached  _ you _ , too. You’re not safe, either.” 

Something cold crashed down through him, despite the sun beating down from well overhead. It was just past noon. 

_ That’s right,  _ Yanjun thought.  _ You will never be safe as long as you’re with me. _

But instead, he said, “Didn’t I tell you I would protect you?” He tried for a reassuring smile. “Just don’t ask me to save anyone else and we won’t have a problem.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

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